The Road Ahead
by Sally Gardens
Summary: Frodo is granted the grace of return, but now faces the challenge of rebuilding his broken life. See author bio for story notes.
1. Prologue: Molly

**NOTE:** See my author bio for the Introduction to this story.

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Prologue: Molly **

Of the first thirty-six years of my life, I remember nothing. The rest, I remember only too well. 

This road I walk is isolated. To my left rise the hills; atop them, a tower, said to overlook the sea. I consider the ascent, but decline. I will meet the sea soon enough. 

And the sea, may it be, will be ready to receive me. 

I am one of the only Hobbits in the whole Shire to have read the Mayor's great book. There was a day, some seven years ago—before he became Mayor, of course—when I chanced upon him sitting under a tree near the Green Dragon, cradling an untouched mug of beer between his broad, calloused hands. I had never seen a look of such aching deep sorrow as I saw in his eyes, staring as they were over the green hills and golden leaves of the Shire, seeing none of it. Wrapped though I was in my own despair, I could not help but ask if anything was amiss. 

"Aye," he said, his eyes still bleak as a gray winter's day. "Though I have won, I have lost, and all the gold and all the fine houses in the Shire will never fill the loss." 

I feared to say it, but say it I did: "You speak of Mr. Baggins, sir?" 

He looked to me, then, and nodded, affecting the look of cheer which all Hobbits learn from early on to cover their troubles. "I do, lass, but no mind. He's gone to a better place, better for him, leastways, even if not for those of us left behind." 

I, of course, being both genuinely concerned and incurably inquisitive, then inquired as to what this better place might be to which Mr. Baggins had gone. And that was how I got to read the Mayor's book, and so learned the story of how Mr. Baggins and the Mayor together saved our Shire from destruction, and learned why it was that Mr. Baggins looked so distant and sober those last two years after he and his companions had returned from afar, and learned how it was no mere wanderer's journey that had set him to take to the sea, but a flight to a better land, a better place than this broken and wounded world where evil lies in wait to devour innocence, a place in which he might at last find peace from the memories that tormented his waking and his dreaming. Too deeply hurt; that was what he had said. The Shire had been saved, but not for him. 

Nor for me, I think, as I continue along my darkening road. 

The invaders... 

Ah! Had I known, had I known when first the Big Folk set foot in the Shire, I would have fled: to the woods, to the hills, to the sea, I would have fled, and taken my chance on the Wild. It could not be worse than— 

A cry overhead. I open my eyes, see a streak of white against the dusk. A sea-bird. My journey is almost ended. 

I put aside the memories of the Occupation and think again on the Mayor's book. He had been so very eager to share it with me, would have read the whole thing to me himself, start to finish, had I not learned my letters. I warrant that I am no scholar, and it took a great deal of concentration to make it through Mr. Baggins' learned prose, but I made it through, all the same, returning every morning as soon as it was decent to show up on Bag End's doorstep, and spending all the day in Bag End's study until hunger and the lowering rays of daylight pried me away. 

"If only more folk cared anywhere near the way you do," said the Mayor often as he looked up at me from where he worked at his desk. 

That had been the fondest wish of Mr. Baggins in the writing of the book: _Read them things out of the Red Book,_ he had said, _and tell them of the Great Danger, so that they will love their beloved land all the more._

And then he had departed. 

And now I, too, having arrived at the sea, will likewise depart. 

I am not sure why I chose the sea. There were many ways I might have chosen, many roads to freedom. Perhaps a part of me felt a kinship, a connection, with Mr. Baggins. Like Mr. Baggins, I have been riven by the wounds of war beyond all hope of healing. Like Mr. Baggins, I have come to realize that I will never be the Hobbit I was. The Shire lives on, but like Mr. Baggins I can no longer live in it. And so, somehow, though I never did anything so heroic as he to save the world, or even a village, it seemed appropriate to follow in his footsteps to the sea, even if I can follow no farther than the Havens. I like to think that he would understand. 

I stand, solitary, upon the gray stone quay. My jaw is set, my gaze is stern, or so I fancy it would look to an observer, were there any. This is, I am told, the Elven Haven, but there is no evidence of Elves or of anyone living or working in this place. The Elves, I suppose, keep well hidden in this day from Mortals, but no matter. Drawing a deep, strong breath of resignation, I look over the twilit gray waters and lift one foot, thinking of Mr. Baggins. 

_That you might love it all the more._

My foot halts, hovers as sudden tears blot out the sea. All at once I understand, and understanding brings both hope and grief: hope for myself, as I bring my foot back to rest upon the solid earth; grief for Mr. Baggins, as the sad truth strikes me: that he himself failed to understand the very words he had spoken. 

A great, great love for the Shire bursts through me, greater than ever I cared for it before the invaders forever scarred my life. For nigh unto ten years I'd thought they'd robbed me of all hope of joy in my life, only to find, on the brink of casting aside that life as a broken thing to be discarded, that in truth that life was all the more precious for its fragility, and for its endurance in the face of that fragility. 

Streams of salt water course down my cheeks, adding to the sea, joining the tears once shed by the Mayor and his friends. 

_Ah, Mr. Baggins, Mr. Baggins, if only you knew..._

And suddenly, somehow, I am sure that he does know, now, and that the grief I feel is joined with his own, a weight of regret so great that not even the sundering of the worlds can hold it back. 

My tears stop flowing, and I blink my eyes clear as I look to the horizon. For a moment, only a moment, and I think I may be imagining it, it seems as if I can see that Straight Road of which the Elven lore speaks, rising up from the earthly sea to the abode of Great Powers. And for a moment, only a moment, it is as if I see a gem of white glimmering brightly upon a band of silver. But I blink again, and I tell myself it is only the Evening Star shining on the silver-gray line where the sea meets the sky. 

For time beyond counting I watch as the twilight deepens to darkest night, and the sea is but a shadow among shadows. Then, at last, I offer a prayer for Mr. Baggins to whatever Powers might be listening, and then I turn my back to the sea and find shelter on the edge of the woods. If Elves are near, I will come to no harm this night. And in the morning I will take again to the road, this time in the light of the day, walking back into the morning sun to embrace the life that awaits me in the beloved land I had very nearly forsaken. 

And someday, soon, when an older and wiser Mr. Baggins returns along this same road to home, I for one will not be in the least surprised. 

* * *

  
  



	2. Chapter One: An Unexpected Journey

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** PART ONE: AUTUMN **

** Chapter One: An Unexpected Journey **

Water. Water and darkness. And warmth. 

Waking, as from a dream. Wishing he were falling asleep again. 

But, it seemed, he'd had quite enough of sleep. 

Frodo let the blanket fall away, let his feet find the floor, let his hands find the door. 

He was on a ship. In a firth. Drawing toward a rocky gray shore at the edge of a wood. A gray stone quay in a lonely haven. 

He knew that haven. 

And memory, the mists of a fading dream, played at the edge of his sleep-hazed mind. 

*

_ ...surrounded by gray mists, he stared into the night...wondering if he would ever feel again... _

_ Frodo, my lad...my story is drawing to a close...yours is only half-written... _

_ Go. Live the rest of your story. _

_ ...pacing the shore, gazing east over the sea...the brine stung his eyes, yet no tears would come... _

_ If you truly desire it, the way of return shall be opened to you. _

_ ...the gentle undulation of the waves against the ship rocked him, rocked him, soothing him with their ceaseless soft song... _

*

He was back. 

He stood on the quay, looking at the road that would lead back to the Shire. 

_The Shire has been saved, but not for me._

He stared down the road, a road grown dim in the deepening twilight. It had been twilight when he had departed; if this were a tale, he should be returning to a rising sun, striding with renewed hope and strength into a new day. 

But this was no tale, only his life, moving along as it would and not waiting to meet his expectations. He drew in a long, measured breath and let it out in a song. 

_And so the Road is not yet through.  
Far from the door where it began,  
The end has turned to start anew,  
And I must follow—if I can.  
Pursuing it with faltering feet  
Until once more I find my way  
To a dear, familiar street.  
And whither then? I cannot say.  
_

The song fell to silence. 

Twilight had become night. He ought, he supposed, to settle beneath a sheltering tree, make camp, set out at dawn, but he had always liked to walk at night, at least when night had been gentle and dusted with starlight, as was this one, and he found he had, after all, had quite enough of sleep for now. 

Frodo lifted one foot and began the long journey home. 

* * *

  
  



	3. Chapter Two: A Dear, Familiar Street

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Two: A Dear, Familiar Street **

A great yearning for home arose within Frodo the moment he took his first step away from the Sea. Whatever had transpired in the West was already fading from mind and memory. He knew and cared only that, against all hope, he was going home. 

Once inside the Shire, Frodo avoided the roads, traveling instead over wide fields and through little woods that were still familiar to him from his youthful rambles. When he chanced to pass other people, Frodo kept the hood of his cloak close over his face, hastening his steps and giving no opportunity for conversation. He was determined that of all the Shire, there was one Hobbit, and no other, who must and would be the first to know of Frodo's return. 

*

At long last, after many days of walking, Frodo made his way up the road that wound up the Hill and met the path that curved in front of the dearest place in all the world. He paused by the front door, trying to summon the courage to ring the bell, wondering what he would say; but scarcely had he begun to lift his hand when he let it fall back to his side: Wisps of wordless song wafted upon the warm afternoon air, the music of a low, rough voice that had been far too long out of Frodo's hearing. 

Frodo crept along the path, drawing nearer to the voice. Peering from behind a neatly trimmed shrub, he saw a short, plump figure, trowel in hand, kneeling in the midst of a fading garden. 

Frodo began to tremble. Tears sprang into his eyes, but he blinked them back. Letting his hood fall away, he drew a deep breath to steady himself. 

"Hullo, Sam." 

The trowel dropped to the ground. Slowly, as if in a dream, Samwise Gamgee turned, his round dark brown eyes wide and staring. Several times his mouth worked soundlessly before he managed to croak out, "Mr. Frodo?" 

Frodo felt a hint of a smile lighten his face. "Mayor Samwise?" he answered, stepping forward. 

"You—but—but—no." Sam squeezed his eyes shut and vigorously shook his head. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes again. "Yes. It is. It's really you. Isn't it? Or am I dreaming, from wishing so hard all these years?" 

"No, Sam." Frodo blinked, swallowed hard, struggled to find his voice. "It's no dream. I'm—I'm home." 

Sam stared for another moment, then: 

"_Glory and trumpets!_" 

All at once Sam burst into laughter and tears, leaping up and throwing his arms around Frodo. "It _is_ you!" he exclaimed, clutching Frodo in a crushing embrace. "Rosie! Rosie! Children! Come here! Quick!" 

The front door burst open. "Heavens above, Sam! What in the Shire is—" Sam's wife halted in the middle of the path, her eyes bulging. "Is—it cannot—is it—?" 

"Yes, Rosie!" laughed Sam. "It's Mr. Frodo! He's come back! To stay!" 

"But I thought—" 

"So did I! So did he! But _look,_ Rosie!" Sam stepped back and held out his hands toward Frodo. "Here he is, plain as the nose on my face—but thankfully looking a sight better." 

"You mean _the_ Mr. Frodo?" asked a slender girl with strawberry-blond hair. "Frodo of the Ring?" 

"Yes, Elanor," answered Sam, turning to his daughter. 

"Elanor." Frodo gazed in wonder upon Sam's eldest child. "Little Elanor. Why, last time I saw you..." 

"Grown tall, she is," Sam quietly agreed, laying a hand on Frodo's arm. "But, here! Let me introduce you to the lot! This here," Sam gestured toward a boy who was the very image of his father, "he's the next in line, our Frodo-lad." 

"They call me Fro, for short," the boy explained. Grinning, he added, "They named me after you." 

"Yes, I know," answered Frodo, winking. 

"And then there's our Rosie-lass, a-clinging to her Mum, there; and our little Merry." 

"And—?" 

Sam looked at Frodo sharply. "That's all for now," he lightly replied, but in his eyes Frodo could see the unspoken question: _How could you see my future so clearly, but not your own?_

* * *

  
  



	4. Chapter Three: Many Happy Returns

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Three: Many Happy Returns **

"Well, Sam Gamgee," declared Frodo as he and Sam entered the study. "I must say that you are thriving beyond my wildest hopes. I am happy for you." 

Sam blushed. "Thank you, Mr. Frodo. Though it's 'Gardner,' now," he added. "Gardner of the Hill. A silly affectation, as may be—Rosie thought so, to be sure—but it had a nice sound to it, and seemed fit, somehow. A new name for a new life." 

A lump rose in Frodo's throat. "And a fit name it is, dear Sam," he answered thickly, "for the greatest gardener in all of history." 

"Ah." Sam grunted, shrugging. 

"Now don't you be giving me any of your 'ah' talk," Frodo stoutly retorted. "I have never seen gardens so fair and restful to the eye and heart." 

Sam's eyes rolled up to fix upon Frodo's. "Not even—?" He looked out the window. 

Frodo lay his hand on Sam's shoulder. "I missed _your_ gardens, Sam." 

The other Hobbit's lip trembled, and as soon as his eyes met Frodo's again, the tears began. "Oh, there I go again," he muttered, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes. 

"It is quite all right, Sam," assured Frodo, laughing gently as he hugged Sam. "As Gandalf said, not all tears are an evil." 

"He did. And I remember when he said it." 

"Oh, Sam." 

For several moments they remained still, Sam leaning on Frodo, Frodo clinging to Sam. 

"I never thought to see you again," murmured Sam. "Least not this side of the Sea. But." Sam's voice brightened as he smiled up at Frodo. "All's well as ends better, and here you are: safe and sound and healed of your every hurt." 

Frodo drew a sharp breath. "No, Sam," he said. "I wasn't healed, even there." 

The smile fell away. 

"It wasn't all for naught," Frodo quickly strove to assure Sam. "I had peace. For a while. Until missing you, missing _home,_ pained me more than my wounds. But my wounds have not gone away, nor do I think they ever shall." 

Sam stared at him, wondering. Then he eased back a bit from Frodo, clapping him heartily on his good arm. "You're back," he declared. "That's all as really matters, now—except—" He frowned. "I thought it weren't _allowed_ for you to come back, once passed over." 

"It's not." 

"Then—how—?" 

Frodo smiled wistfully, shaking his head slightly, searching for an answer, and finding: 

"Grace." 

*

They sat in the study, chatting nonstop over lit pipes of the finest leaf in Sam's considerable stock. Yes, Sam confirmed, he had indeed become Mayor of the Shire, just last year at the Fair, and no, Frodo insisted, he had no intention of allowing Sam to return Bag End and all its sundry properties to him, and he would hear no more talk of that. 

"Supper," said Rose, popping her head into the doorway before bustling down the hall. 

"I'll be needing to wash," said Frodo, rising. "I'm covered head to toe with the dust of road and field." 

Sam followed Frodo, continuing his meandering narrative of his life since Frodo's departure, until Frodo, looking into the mirror above the basin, startled at the sight of his reflection. 

"How old _am_ I?" he burst out, overriding Sam. 

Sam thought a moment. "Sixty," he said, eyebrows rising. "Today." 

"Seven years." Frodo gazed distantly at his own reflection. "Seven years, to the day, since we set out from Bag End..." He shook himself, putting on a smile. "Well. That explains the gray hair." 

Sam nodded cheerfully, but inwardly he sobered as he took a long look at Frodo. Elvenhome or no, age had indeed caught up with Frodo: Strands of gray streaked his nut-brown curls, and though the strain of his Quest was long past, the lines on his yet lean face would ever bear testimony to the hard road he had once walked. _Six months,_ thought Sam. _Scarcely six months, it was, and yet it was a lifetime, and then some._ He dared not look into the mirror. 

*

Rose was just setting out bowls of steaming turnips and greens and other hearty fare for a cool autumn night when Sam and Frodo came to the table. Sam continued to regale Frodo with as much news of the past seven years as he could fit into each breathless sentence. 

"Oh, and Merry's back in Brandy Hall, now, tending to his dad, who's not as hale as he used to be. Crickhollow's empty again, since Pippin got married just last year—though you'd scarcely know it from the way he carries on. Spends all his time wandering about from tavern to inn, from Michel Delving to Bree, wherever he can find a pint and an audience." 

"Sam." Rose's voice was quiet, but the warning look in her eyes was plain. 

"Oh. You're right, Rosie," Sam answered, with a sheepish glance around the table. "You children never mind what I just said, hear?" 

Rose sighed. "And you know that'll just seal it in their minds." 

"Ah. They're too young. Be forgotten by bedtime. Besides," his voice went up cheerfully, "we are celebrating the birthday of Mr. Frodo, here, who is all of sixty years old, and likely to get even older—" 

"Sam," protested Rose and Frodo in unison. 

"—and for good children such as finish the good supper that Mother Rose has set on the table, there will be a mag-_nif_-i-cent _birthday cake_ and _crackers_ and maybe a _present_ or two." Sam winked, and beamed to see the young ones hanging wide-eyed on his every word. 

"Sam," Frodo quietly objected, leaning next to his ear. "You know very well I haven't got anything with me but the clothes on my back." 

"I took the liberty of sending a neighbor lad to town to do a bit of shopping," Sam murmured back, waving his hand in dismissal. "Now sit back and enjoy your birthday dinner." 

"But, Sam, that's not right. I'm the one who's supposed to do the buying, not you." 

Sam shrugged and speared a chunk of turnip with his fork. "All I have was given by you," he reasoned, "so reckon you're still doing the buying, if it pleases you." He stuffed the turnip into his mouth, glancing sidelong at Frodo with a crafty gleam in his eye. 

Frodo laughed and threw up his hands. "You win, Sam," he said, taking up his fork. 

*

"Ah, and now that the children are all in bed—" Sam, with Frodo and Rose, stood in the parlor amidst a carpet of confetti and streamers and scraps of colored wrap from birthday presents. "Half a moment." He stepped out into the hall and returned momentarily, bearing a bottle of wine. "Been saving this for a special occasion," he said, handing the bottle to Frodo. "Can't think of an occasion like to be more special than this." 

"Well, Sam!" Unabashed delight spread across Frodo's face as he read the label. "An excellent vintage, indeed. I am humbled by your generosity." He handed the bottle back to Sam, who opened it while Rose retrieved three glasses from a cabinet. 

"To Mr. Frodo," declared Sam, raising his glass high above his head. "Health and long life." 

"Hear, hear," Rose chimed in, letting her glass _ping_ against the others. 

Frodo smiled wryly. "Saruman said I would have neither." 

Sam looked unflinchingly into Frodo's eyes. "Saruman lied." 

* * *

  
  



	5. Chapter Four: Mending Begins With the To...

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Four: Mending Begins With the Torn **

Strange sounds intruded upon his slumber. A clatter of dishes. The chatter of voices. High voices. 

Hobbit voices. 

He was home. 

Frodo felt a lazy smile spread over his face. Slowly, leisurely, he opened his eyes, blinking at the sunlight seeping between the drapes. 

He was home. 

He knew he wasn't healed. He knew he should be feeling wary, shadowed, dreading the next descent of darkness. And descend it would, he had no doubt. October lay not far around the bend. But it could not touch him now. Now, he felt and cared for only one thing. 

He was home. 

*

Breakfast with the Gardner clan was a jolly, chaotic affair. It was a bit overwhelming for one who was long unused to the bustle of family. Frodo ate mostly in silence, content to observe and to absorb and to consider himself the luckiest Hobbit in the Shire. 

"It was awfully good of you to keep my old clothes handy," he said when Sam walked into the dining room. 

Sam shrugged and reached for the cider. "Lucky for you I'm such a keeper of mathoms," he gruffly replied. "Else you'd be swimming in one of my suits, or stuck wearing that one outfit till we get you some new clothes, and if you'll pardon my saying so, it _is_ a bit travel-worn." 

Frodo smiled and asked Sam to pass the scrambled eggs. 

He was finishing a second helping of potatoes when Sam spoke up. "Have you given thought to sending word to Merry and Pippin that you're home?—though in the case of Master Took, sending word round the inns would do the job quicker—" 

"_Sam._" 

Sam glanced across the table to his wife and began to frame a suitably contrite response, but before he could speak, the doorbell rang. 

"Got it," said Sam, rising and dropping his napkin on the table. 

Frodo exchanged knowing looks with Rose, and they both suppressed smiles, Rose shaking her head. From down the hall came Sam's voice at the door: "Well, lass, and a fine morning it is to see you. I've got someone here you'll want to meet." 

"Meaning me, I presume," called Frodo toward the hallway. 

"Meaning you, Mr. Frodo." Sam beamed at Frodo as he stepped into the dining room with a stranger—more woman than lass, Frodo observed, probably no younger than Sam himself—at his side. "This is Miss Molly Piper. She keeps a bit of a garden and does a bit of crafting in a little hole on the westskirts of Hobbiton." 

Molly curtsied. "I've been waiting to meet you," were the first words out of her mouth—and the color rose in her cheeks as she realized what she had said. 

"I—I had a feeling you'd be coming back, somehow," she stammered, looking round at the circle of stunned faces. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Baggins, sir." 

"No pardon is needed," Frodo kindly assured her, quelling his initial shock with some effort. He stood and bowed. "It is a pleasure to meet you Miss Piper, and I look forward to making your acquaintance." He smiled. "However, if you and the mayor will pardon me, I really am in need of a brief stroll." He patted his small stomach gingerly, as if about to burst. 

"Have you had breakfast, yet, Molly?" inquired Rose, bearing a platter to the table even as she spoke. 

"Go on, then, Mr. Frodo," agreed Sam. "Molly here'll probably still be here when you get back. And I'll be in the study, doing my mayoral duties." 

"Oh, yes, Rose," Molly answered. "Thank you, I have." 

"Ah, yes." Frodo's eyes sparkled. "I remember well the endless pile of papers to be filled and signed." 

"Well, it won't be hurting you to have a bit more," Rose said to Molly, smiling. 

Sam glanced at Frodo shrewdly. "Might be you'd like to run for the office yourself, next term." 

"Well, since you insist, Rose," returned Molly with a smile of her own. "I'd be remiss to turn down your kind hospitality." 

"Not a chance, thank you all the same, _Mayor_ Samwise." Frodo smiled to himself and pulled a pipe out of his jacket as he stepped into the hall. 

*

After partaking of Rose's kind hospitality, Molly thought a walk sounded like a fine idea. She had no more in mind than to help the surfeit of breakfast settle in her stomach; but when she stepped out on the front porch, she caught sight of Frodo sitting beneath the great beautiful tree that had grown to replace the Party Tree of old. And seeing him reminded her of something she wished to ask him, so she crossed the lawn and stood by his side. 

"Mr. Baggins, sir." 

Frodo looked up from his pipe. The sun caught his brown eyes, warming them to deep amber. "Hm?" 

"Do—d'you mind if I sit with you a moment?" 

"Oh. No, not at all, Miss Piper. But please," he added, as Molly settled next to him on the grass, "call me Frodo. All of my friends do." 

Molly let her gaze wander down the side of the hill, over the fields and the Water to the little houses and holes on the other side. "The mayor calls you _Mr._ Frodo." She glanced out of the corner of her eye to gauge his response. 

One corner of Frodo's mouth tugged up. "So he does," he murmured, puffing on his pipe. 

An answering smile flickered upon Molly's face before she turned back to meditating upon the countryside below. She sighed, and settled back upon the grass, her hands stretched behind her for support. "That you may love it all the more," she murmured, her smile softening. 

A sudden fit of coughing snapped her out of her reverie. 

"Mr. Ba—Frodo!" she exclaimed, immediately sitting up and taking the pipe from where, stubbornly, it remained clenched in his teeth. "Good heavens! Can I—?" Frodo shook his head, coughing harshly into his fist. 

"I'm fine," he at last rasped out. He drew a long breath, and let it out slowly. "Caught the smoke the wrong way in my throat, 's all." His eyes watered profusely as he blinked, striving for focus. 

"Here." Molly thrust a lace-trimmed handkerchief at him. "It's clean," she assured him. 

Frodo burst out laughing—and was caught short by another round of coughing. "Oh. Oh, Miss Piper—" 

"Molly." 

He looked up at her, eyes still brimming, and winked. "Molly it is." Blotting his eyes with the handkerchief, he went on, "Molly, I cannot begin to guess how long it's been since I last laughed so well." 

"Well, if telling you I did my laundry's all it takes, then I say it's long overdue." Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh! Begging your pardon! What my mother would say, to see her daughter exhibit such cheek towards her betters—" 

"I am not your better." Frodo was completely sober, now, as he carefully reached for her hand and gave it a brief squeeze, drawing it away from her face. "I am your neighbor, and, I hope, to be numbered among your friends, as Sam and Rose plainly number you among theirs; and a friendlier welcome home I could not have wished for. And," again his eyes twinkled, and he held up the now-sodden handkerchief, "I will be sure to wash this before I return it to you." 

Molly couldn't help but return his smile, though hers held more gratitude than mirth. "Thank you, Mr.—I'll remember, I'll remember!" she protested with a little laugh as she could see the correction forming on his lips. "Thank you—Frodo." 

"And thank _you_—Molly." 

They sat a while, then, in silence. Frodo had put his pipe aside to lean back against the tree, hands behind his head. Molly settled back on the lawn, once again joining Frodo in his watch over the peaceful country. The air was cool, but not uncomfortable, and now and then a little breeze would ripple the golden leaves on the alders along the stream. 

When the sun was growing high in the south, Molly stirred. "Best I be taking my leave now, Mi—_Frodo_." 

"Very well." He rose and extended his right hand. Molly barely got a glimpse of a great gap where the ring finger should have been before Frodo hastily withdrew his right hand and thrust out his left. "Here." 

"Thank you," she said, accepting as he helped her to her feet. "You are a true gentlehobbit," she added, trying not to notice how he now kept his right hand hidden in his pocket. 

"You are kind to say so," he answered, walking with her across the grass. 

Where the path met the road to Hobbiton, Molly halted and turned back to Frodo. 

"I nearly forgot," she said. "I had a dream, just this past week, it was, and I was wondering, well, if you might help me make sense of it. It had you in it," she quickly added, "so that's why I was thinking, now, you might know, because I couldn't make head nor tail of it." 

Frodo blinked, raising his eyebrows. "What was the dream?" 

"Oh—not much, really. Just you standing on a ship, sailing, sailing, over a wide gray sea. And you were coming to, not going away, and there was a voice, speaking. Poetry. Like someone standing and reciting for a party." 

He could feel his heart pounding in absurd anticipation—or, possibly, and even more absurdly, dread—as he asked, hopefully, hesitantly, "Do—do you remember the poem?" 

Molly nodded. "Yes, I do, and I hope you can make sense of it." She drew herself up straight, folding her hands behind her back, and recited: 

_Blessing from what was thought to be curse;  
From deepest wounds springs healing.  
Happy the wise who holds the path;  
The reward of endurance: revealing.  
From the instrument meant to destroy us,  
The peace of the kindreds is born;  
From darkness, vision of the light,  
And mending begins with the torn.  
_

She let out a slip of breath, letting her arms settle back to her sides, and looked expectantly to Frodo. He was frowning, deep in thought, and Molly wasn't sure whether he liked at all what he had heard. 

"Well, that's it." She shrugged. "I can't blame you if it makes no sense to you, either, but I supposed it was worth asking." 

Frodo looked up. "No, I can't say I quite understand it, myself," he admitted. "Well, it seems I should, but—but you're right." His face lit up with a bright smile. "It doesn't make any sense. Dreams can be like that." 

"Indeed they can," replied Molly. Then she smiled in return. "But I shan't delay you any longer. I'm sure Sam and Rose have got your lunch waiting, and I do need to be getting home. Good afternoon, Frodo." 

Frodo nodded and lifted his left hand in farewell. "Good afternoon, Molly." 

* * *

  
  



	6. Chapter Five: And Whither Then?

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Five: And Whither Then? **

"Well, Sam." Frodo looked up from his half-full lunch plate and set down his fork. "I've been thinking about what you said this morning, about sending word to Merry and Pippin." 

Sam nodded. "You're not planning to waste that?" He jabbed his fork at Frodo's plate. 

"No, Sam, of course not." Frodo picked up his fork and ate a few more mushrooms. "But I really do need to consider the matter. Should I send letters, and allow the initial shock to spend itself before we meet, or just ride out and visit them straight off and shock them out of their wits as I did to you?" 

Sam grinned. "'Tweren't that bad, Mr. Frodo," he said. Putting down his fork, he thought a moment. "As for Merry and Pippin. Well. As I said already, Pippin's away more than he's home, so in his case I'd send a letter and let him come by to see you whenever he finally gets round to remembering he's got a home to come home to and reads his mail. But Merry...well, he's most always at Brandy Hall, these days, so you have a better than fair chance of meeting with him right off. Though I warn you, don't _you_ be shocked if seeing you takes him some getting used to." 

Frodo winked. "Have my looks failed that much, Sam?" 

"No, no." Sam wished he'd stop putting his foot in it. "You're as handsome as ever, and it's a wonder the lasses aren't already storming the door—" 

Frodo grimaced. "I had enough of that in my youth, thank you." 

Sam grinned. "Be that as it may. But what I'm saying, Mr. Frodo," and he sobered again, "is that, well, you've _changed_. You're looking your rightful age—which is as should be—but thing is, you _weren't_. To be sure, you _did_ look a mite travelworn—and didn't we all—but even when you left, you still looked more thirty-three than fifty-three." 

Frodo looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. "I see." 

"Not that it's a bad thing, mind you—" 

"Of course not." Frodo lifted his head, looking earnestly at Sam. "I'm glad, really, and grateful. If the power of the Ring has faded in this regard, perhaps it is not too much to hope that it shall fade in other ways. Perhaps..." 

Sam watched him sympathetically, lunch forgotten. "And isn't that just what the Queen Arwen said, Mr. Frodo? All that the Ring had done would be passing away. _All_ of it, Mr. Frodo. Think on that, and take hope." 

But if not even the Elvenhome could heal Frodo, _did_ any hope remain? 

But no; he wouldn't give in like that, and Mr. Frodo barely home, and all. He couldn't believe they'd have sent Mr. Frodo back, had there been no hope. 

"But now that I think about it." Frodo had taken up eating again, with a vengeance, and spoke through a generous mouthful of mushrooms. "It doesn't seem right, Sam, to grant Merry a personal visit and only send Pippin a letter. And since Pippin is not readily available, I shall have to settle for notifying both of them by letter, and hope that Merry understands." 

Sam brought himself back to the present matter. "He will. And you're right, of course, now that you spell it out so plainly. Besides, once Merry gets that letter, he'll be out here as fast as he can pull away from his duties for a few days, so you'll have your visit, all the same." 

"I'm looking forward to seeing them both," said Frodo. "It's been so long." 

"Don't hold your breath waiting for Pippin." 

"I _shan't_," Frodo assured him. "I think you've given me ample warning on that account. But even Pippin must go home, eventually." 

Sam shrugged and took another stab at his lunch. "Eventually." 

*

Following lunch, Frodo retired with Sam to the study. While Sam sat in his favorite chair, poring over tedious official documents—some of which actually served a useful purpose—Frodo sat at Sam's desk, scribbling notes and drafts and making not a few minor refinements until he was satisfied that he had found the right words for each cousin. He folded the letters, sealing them with wax; he refrained from using the Mayor's Seal, instead digging in the box until he found an old seal with his own monogram. _Blessed Samwise of the Thousand Mathoms,_ thought Frodo. He grinned to himself as he pressed the seal onto the melted wax. 

Using the old seal served a purpose beyond indulging Frodo's nostalgia: If Merry and Pippin had any memory at all, they would immediately recognize the twined "FB" encircled with ivy. More important, it was unlikely, after all these years, that anyone else who handled the letters would. Frodo had not included his name on the return address, so only those who recognized either the seal or his handwriting would recognize the sender. That, he thought with satisfaction, fairly well ensured that nobody in the Shire would know before Merry and Pippin that— 

"Molly!" 

Sam looked up at him. "What of Molly?" 

"She knows I'm here, Sam," said Frodo. "Even if you send these off in today's last post, there's still a good chance Merry and Pippin will hear from gossips before they hear from me." 

"Oh. That." Sam waved a hand. "I shouldn't worry, Mr. Frodo. Molly lives outside of the village proper, and keeps mostly to herself, when she's not here. I can't see her wanting to shout the news in the square. She thinks too highly of you, at least as she knows you from our book, and—" 

"She's read our book?" exclaimed Frodo. 

Sam nodded. "Aye, and I could wish more folks cared to hear our story." 

"I see." Frodo bit the end of the pen, frowning, and looked away. 

Sam watched him with concern. "Mr. Frodo?" he ventured after several minutes of silence. 

Frodo snapped out of his reverie, blinking. "Yes, Sam?" 

"Please don't be taking it so hard. I'm sure more folks will be reading it—" 

"Oh, no, Sam. That wasn't it at all. Rather, you got me thinking of something Bilbo said to me." Frodo stared out the window, resting his chin on his hand. "He said, 'Go and live the rest of your story.' The _rest_ of my story. He must have known, Sam; I don't know how." 

"Gandalf, like as not." 

Frodo looked over to Sam, his eyes alight. "I shouldn't doubt it. You're right, of course; it must have been. It _was_ Gandalf who approached me...afterwards. About being allowed to return, if I wished it. But—the _rest_ of my story," he repeated in a wondering voice. "I have as much as half a lifetime to fill, Sam, and not the least idea of how I shall fill it." 

"I've still got a number of empty pages at the end of the book, if you wish to have a crack at them." 

"No." Emphatically Frodo shook his head. "The tale of the Ring is at an end. This is _my_ story, a new turn in the Road—" He cast about, flinging drops of ink as he waved the pen aimlessly. 

"A new book to be written?" suggested Sam, suppressing a curse as several drops of ink splattered on his shirt, one of his best. 

"Yes. In a manner of speaking; I think I'd rather simply _live_ it than spend all my days _writing_ it—and of course," he added thoughtfully, "that other story _is_ a part of my story, and always will be; a part that I cannot ever wholly put behind me." His gaze fell to his right hand, and he sighed. "But it is not, after all, the _whole_ story. _My_ whole story." He looked up again. "I just want to have my life back, Sam." 

Sam looked soberly into Frodo's eyes. "You will, Mr. Frodo. I'll do everything I can to see to that." 

* * *

  
  



	7. Chapter Six: Planting and Tending

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Six: Planting and Tending **

"I need a proper bath," was Frodo's first thought upon awakening. As with the first night back, he had tumbled into bed fully clothed, exhausted but content, and had sunk promptly into a deep and dreamless sleep. It would take more than a change of clothes to keep him presentable, he thought, so without troubling Sam or Rose he set about heating water and filling a tub. Clothes were soon flung over the back of a chair, and Frodo immersed himself neck-deep in a steaming bath. 

He closed his eyes. For countless glorious minutes, his whole world was water caressing travel-weary skin, heat seeping into constricted muscles, soap sliding away the grime of past wanderings. 

"Hullo? Mr. Frodo?" 

His eyelids flew open. "Bathing, Sam," he called. "Half a minute." 

"Take your time," Sam called back through the door. "Just letting you know that breakfast's about ready." 

"Thank you, Sam. I shan't be long." Gripping the sides of the tub, he slowly pulled himself up, groaning under his breath. _Not a lad anymore, are you, Frodo?_ "Ah, well," he said to himself, briskly rubbing down with a thick towel. "Gray hair becomes you." Grabbing a comb from the stand, he grinned, then halted as he looked into the mirror. 

_It's gone._

How had he missed it? He could only guess it had been the combination of excitement and exhaustion and the sheer overwhelming burden of trying to catch up seven years into the past two days; whatever the reason, he noticed now: His neck was bare of any jewelry. The jewel Arwen had given him was gone. 

_Odd, that,_ he mused, working the comb slowly, carefully, through the tangled damp mass of curls. Then, teasing at the edges of his mind, a memory slipped to the fore: 

_Take it. Keep it. Remember me by it._

_Are you certain, Frodo? You may yet have need of it. You have said yourself that you are not free of pain, even here._

_I am certain._

He studied his reflection. Older, yes; but the lines of care, though etched forever into his face, had softened, and there was, he thought, a peace about his countenance that had not been there before. 

"Perhaps..." he whispered. The eyes in the mirror gazed hopefully, desperately, at him. He gave his hair a last flick of the comb and went to breakfast. 

*

Several days later, on his way from the front door to the study, Sam handed a letter to Frodo. Frodo glanced at it, then felt his heart stop. 

"Merry." 

With trembling hands he broke the seal and unfolded the paper. 

_Dearest Cousin Frodo,_

_To say that your letter was a pleasant surprise should be the understatement of the age. When I saw your writing—and I knew right off it was yours; you have a most distinctive hand—_

Frodo winced, but read on. 

_—I dared not hope it might truly be what it seemed to be. I thought, perhaps, Sam had run across an old letter never sent, and passed it along that I might have one last bit of you for memory's sake. Yet it proved that my fondest hope has, indeed, come to pass, and you are home, returned from where it is said there is no return. How such a blessing came to be, I cannot fathom; but I hope that you shall be able to tell me, and that we shall be able to talk at length, when we have opportunity to meet again. _

My father, as Sam told you, is not as strong as once he was; he still has some vigor, and all of his wits, but nevertheless needs me to help him manage the affairs of Buckland. I understand, now, what Sam means when he says that he has responsibilities! Ah, it seems that everything must change—and yet, in some ways, nothing truly changes. You have always been in my heart, as, I hope, I have been in yours; and at my first opportunity I shall hasten to Bag End that we may visit over full mugs and full pipes, as in old days. 

_With all my love,_  
_Your cousin,_  
_Merry_

Frodo looked up from the letter, allowing the glow within to slowly suffuse his face. "Sam!" he called out, darting down the hall toward the study. "Sam! Merry's coming! Merry's coming, Sam!" 

*

September turned to October. There still had been no word from Pippin, so Frodo kept to the grounds of Bag End. It was not an unpleasant restriction, especially with the fall planting to be done and the season so fair. And, too, Frodo had the company of Sam and Rose and the children, and of Molly, for whom it apparently was a habit of long standing to visit Bag End most every day. She seemed to be more fond of thinking than talking, and when she did talk, it was mostly with Rose about matters of preserving and putting by the fruits of the fall harvest—she promised to bring some of her cider and apple butter to add to the table for the Festival of Last Harvest at month's end—but she was agreeable company, all the same, and Frodo welcomed it. Every new day brought Frodo closer to the sixth, but he would not allow his enjoyment of the day to be marred by dread of the morrow. _Perhaps it shan't be as bad as before,_ he assured himself, and put the coming anniversary firmly out of mind. 

The fifth of October was as pleasant an autumn day as anyone could wish. Frodo and Sam whiled it away in the flower garden, clearing away weeds and old growth and turning the soil to plant bulbs that, with care and luck, would bloom in the spring. Every now and then Frodo would catch himself beginning to sing a bit of a remembered song, and he would stop short, laughing self-consciously, only to have Sam urge him to keep singing. "I like to hear your voice," explained Sam, busily working the soil with a cultivator. So Frodo sang while he and Sam worked, and both hearts were filled with contentment. 

As the morning sun rose to the noon mark, Frodo sat back on his heels and let the trowel fall to the ground. "How long have I wished for this," he sighed happily. "To sit in peace in my own garden—your garden," he quickly corrected himself, glancing at Sam. 

Sam shrugged, intent on patting dirt over a bulb. "Our garden," he said. 

Frodo smiled. "Our garden." He lifted his face to the brilliant blue sky and breathed deeply. "To peacefully potter about in the garden, and be able to enjoy it—truly _enjoy_ it, Sam. Do you know what a gift that is?" 

Patting the last bit of dirt into place, Sam turned and caught Frodo's eye. "I do, indeed." He turned back to plant another bulb. 

"Uncle Frodo! Uncle Frodo! Dad! Dad!" Struggling to run with a basket that was just a bit more than a five-year-old could handle, Fro called out breathlessly as he lumbered along the garden path. Behind him, a more sedate Elanor carried a water jug. 

"Lunch time already, is it?" Sam peeked into basket. "Well, we won't starve, and that's a fact." 

"Oh, no, Dad," gasped Fro, striving to catch his breath. "It's for us, too." 

"What he _means,_ Sam-dad," explained Elanor, rolling her eyes as her brother flopped dramatically upon the lawn, "is that Mum said we might take our lunch with you and Uncle Frodo, if we may." 

Sam smiled warmly at her. "You may, providing Fro there can rise up from his death-bed long enough for a last meal." Like a shot, Fro was sitting up, looking as proper as can be. "Wash," ordered Sam, wetting a towel and handing it to his son. 

"I already did," protested the boy. 

"And then went rolling about on the ground," countered Sam, holding firm. 

"Yes, Dad." Reluctantly Fro took the towel from Sam's outstretched hand and gave face and hands a cursory swipe. Elanor laughed, and Sam shook his head and sighed. 

_This is how the old place was meant to be,_ thought Frodo, washing with a clean towel. _Full of the laughter and bustle of children, not haunted by a lone bachelor rattling about the rooms._ He sighed contentedly, growing deep in reflection as he put aside the towel and began to eat. 

"Are you happy, now, Uncle Frodo?" asked Elanor, her bright eyes fixed upon him. 

Frodo pondered a moment, then smiled and nodded. "Yes, Elanor," he replied. "I think from now on I shall be very happy." 

* * *

  
  



	8. Chapter Seven: With Faltering Feet

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Seven: With Faltering Feet **

_I am wounded with knife, and tooth and sting._

He heard a sound in the distance. 

_And a long burden._

The tower. He must climb the tower. 

_Where shall I find rest?_

He must see. 

_I am wounded._

The sound had often haunted his dreams. 

_Wounded._

And he knew. 

_It will never really heal._

It was the Sea. 

_Too deeply hurt._

A light glimmered in the West. 

_Not for me._

A strand, glittering white. 

Pearls. Diamonds. Shimmering jewels. 

Running, running, sailing, sailing, running... 

Falling to his knees. 

The light glimmered and went out. 

_Lost. Lost._

Gone forever. 

_Dark and empty._

Sand and salt slipped through his trembling fingers... 

*

A patchwork quilt. Linens. A pillow, cold and damp against his face. 

A broad hand, gentle on his brow. 

Sam. 

Frodo sucked air through his teeth. Shuddered. 

The quilt was tucked snugly around his chin. 

"Frodo." 

His hand lay open, passive, upon the sheet, in front of his face. 

His shoulder throbbed. 

The hand upon his brow smoothed his hair in tender, delicate strokes. 

"Frodo. How are you?" 

There was an abyss where the Ring used to be. 

A whisper. 

"From deepest wounds springs healing." 

A frown on Sam's face. 

"Frodo? I don't understand." 

His hand. 

"Neither do I, Sam." 

* * *

  
  



	9. Chapter Eight: A Hero's Welcome

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Eight: A Hero's Welcome **

"We can't be keeping you hid away in Bag End forever and aye." 

About a week had passed since Frodo's illness. He had come to breakfast the next day, a little subdued but otherwise well, and in the days that followed Frodo had fallen back into the life of the household as if October sixth had never been. Now he and Sam were sitting in the study after supper, enjoying a half-pint and a quiet chat—or, rather, what had become a quiet argument. 

"Sam, I know. I know." Frodo briefly closed his eyes, massaging his brow with the tips of his fingers. "But I cannot risk having Pippin hear of my return from gossips at an inn." 

"And I say," Sam retorted, "that's the chance he takes when he spends all his time _at_ the inns." 

"No, Sam." Gentle as he was, when Frodo had made up his mind about something he could be as stern as steel. By the look in his eye, Sam knew this was one of those times. 

"All right," he reluctantly conceded. "But if you don't hear from him before another week's out, I'm going out to find him and bring him back here myself. You ought to be able to get about and mix with Hobbiton folk, again, have a half-pint with me at the Green Dragon." 

In spite of himself, Frodo smiled. "Fair enough, Sam." He winked as he sipped from his mug. "But I daresay the ale you keep is better than anything I ever had at the Dragon." 

*

"Fool of a Took," muttered Sam, pacing about the study several days later. 

"Come, now, Sam." Frodo tried, without much success, to blow a smoke ring. "This subject's wearing rather thin." 

"So's my patience." 

"Sam—" 

The doorbell rang. Sam darted to the window and stuck his head out, craning his neck so he could just see around the curve of the Hill to the front porch. 

"About time he dragged his arse home and up here," he grumbled as he pulled himself back into the study. "Pippin," he explained to Frodo, and was halfway down the hall before the word could properly sink into Frodo's understanding. 

From down the hall came a loud, plainly for-Frodo's-benefit declamation: "Hullo, Pippin, got the letter I see, in a timely manner, I trust. Come along,then." 

"You don't have to shout, Sam," came Pippin's strident rebuke; then, abruptly: "Letter? What le—" 

Frodo looked up to see Pippin standing in the doorway of the study, mouth hanging open, eyes wide. 

"Hullo, Pippin," greeted Frodo, rising to meet his cousin. 

Pippin continued to gape, unmoving. 

From behind Pippin, Sam loudly cleared his throat. "Pardon me, Master Peregrin, but a doorway you're not, if you take my mean—" 

"So." The word fell, cold and dull, from Pippin's lips. "Not even the Elvenhome was to your liking?" 

Frodo was dimly aware of Sam's sharp intake of breath. He drew a deep breath of his own, slowly, and with great effort managed to keep his voice steady. "That's quite a greeting for the cousin you haven't seen in seven years." 

"Oh? Pardon me," sneered Pippin, stepping forward. "Did I offend you, Frodo? I suppose you were expecting a warmer welcome—a _hero's_ welcome—" 

"Pippin!" huffed Sam, slipping past the tall Hobbit and standing in front of him. "What in—" 

"No, Sam." Frodo's voice was soft, and resigned. "Whatever he wishes to say, let him say it." 

Pippin's face twisted with contempt. "How noble of you, Frodo." 

"Now, see here—" 

"Sam." Frodo held up a hand. "Please." 

Sam frowned at him, bewildered. 

"Please," Frodo gently repeated. 

Sighing, Sam shrugged and plumped down into his chair. "Have a seat," he grunted to Pippin. Pippin ignored him. 

"Tell me, noble cousin." Deliberately Pippin paced toward Frodo. "Did you really expect to simply show up out of the blue and be welcomed with open arms, as if nothing had ever happened?" 

Teeth clenched around the stem of his pipe, Frodo mildly answered, "I expected to at least be shown a modicum of civility." 

"Really?" Pippin arched his eyebrows, his eyes blazing into Frodo's. "Leaving forever, with nary a word to me or to poor Merry—is that what you call civility? Trying to slip away without so much as a fare-thee-well and thank-you-ever-so-much-for-your-loyalty-and-sacrifice-and-unfailing-_friendship_—was that civil? Leaving it to Gandalf to tell us at the very last minute, passing on his way to the Havens—leaving _us_ to ride frantically across the Shire, hoping against hope that we might not be too late to bid you a last goodbye before you sailed off into the sunset and out of our lives—do you have the _least_ comprehension of the toll your _civility_ took upon us? Or did you think only of yourself and your own pains?" 

"That will be enough of _that!_" exploded Sam, leaping to his feet. 

"Sam—" 

"Thinking only of his own pains, was he?" stormed Sam, drowning out Frodo's objection. "You know as well as any—well, no; _you_ don't. _I_ know, better than anyone save for Mr. Frodo himself, here, how cruelly he suffered—" 

"As if _we_ didn't?" Pippin savagely retorted. "Dragged by Orcs across Rohan—how _kindly_ do you think _they_ treated us?" He turned again on Frodo. "I spared you the details, out of consideration, but perhaps now I ought to give you a clearer idea of what it is like to suffer at the hands of Orcs—" 

"I know well enough, thank you," Frodo quietly cut in. He put out his pipe and set it down on the table. 

"Oh, but of _course!_ How _presumptuous_ of me! Who has suffered, but that the _Ring-bearer_ hasn't suffered still more?" 

"Peregrin Took," growled Sam. 

"Do you _honestly_ think you, alone, live with the wounds of Mordor? I nearly _died_ in battle with the Dark Lord's minions, I have seen his very gaze, felt it ripping through my soul—and let us not even speak of the horrors that Merry faced, and that nearly did him in—and hundreds of others, Frodo. Hundreds upon hundreds. Do you ever think of the scars _we_ bear? The memories _we_ endure that scarcely bear endurance? The nightmares that will only be silenced—sometimes—with bottomless pints of ale?" His voice had fallen, his breathing grown ragged, his face pale. "Dead, we live," whispered Pippin. "Yet live we must. If we can." 

Frodo, stunned and likewise pale, looked back up at Pippin. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked in a hush. 

"Why didn't you?" returned Pippin, softly. 

Frodo thrust his hands in his pockets, shifted his weight. "I feared you'd talk me out of leaving." 

"We'd have tried," admitted Pippin. 

"And had you tried, you would have succeeded." 

"And had we succeeded?" 

Frodo's attention was fixed on the floor. Very quietly came the answer: "I knew I would die." 

Silence settled upon the room. Then, softly pressing against the silence: "You _knew?_" 

More silence. "I _thought_," Frodo wearily amended. "Or, rather, _they_ thought—they thought a _lot_ of things!" he suddenly raged, looking wildly about the room. "I _wanted_ to stay! I _wanted_ to live! But not for _you_, Ring-bearer, to go back to the Shire! Not for _you_ the return to peace! Only the Sea...only the Sea..." His voice faded, and tears glittered in his eyes. "Not even the Sea." 

Abruptly he crumpled, burying his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." 

"Don't be absurd. It's the most honest thing I've heard from you since the War." 

"No. No. It was wrong." He stood frozen, forlorn, face still hidden in his hands. "It had to be done. I accepted that. Truly. I did. _Somebody_ had to do it." Shuddering, Frodo choked out, "But, even now, I wish I had not been that somebody." 

Pippin glanced uneasily at Sam, who stared mournfully, on the verge of tears, at Frodo. 

Blinking rapidly, Pippin turned back to Frodo, clearing his throat. "It's—it's all right, cousin," he falteringly offered, "to be angry when fate drops a shit on you." 

It was, Frodo knew, an effort at conciliation; and deep within he knew he should take it, but, drained and numb, he observed passively as the reflex of elder cousin to younger prevailed. "Have a care with your language, Pippin," he sighed. 

Conciliation fled. "You sanctimonious, moralizing _bastard_," began Pippin, too late realizing his mistake. 

Frodo's head snapped up. In a flash he went from pale to livid, the color rushing up into his face, hot and furious. His eyes were full of fire. But when he spoke, it was in a stony undertone far more terrible than the shouting had been. 

"_Go. Now._" 

Pippin locked eyes with Frodo, expressionless; then, finally, he shrugged. "As you wish." 

"I'll get your things." Sam leaped from his chair, exiting the room. 

Holding his chin high, Pippin started to follow Sam, but at the study door he hesitated and turned back. 

For a moment his eyes flickered as they met Frodo's. "I looked up to you," he said. A breath longer the bond was held; then Pippin spun on his heel into the hallway, hastening toward the front door. 

*

Sam returned to the study to find Frodo standing at the window, hands jammed in his pockets. 

"It's _not_ true." 

Sam bowed his head, closing his eyes and sighing. "Of course not, Mr. Frodo." 

Nothing was said for several minutes. Finally, Sam gave another small sigh and settled back into his chair, lighting his pipe. 

"I'm going outside for a breath of air," declared Frodo, avoiding eye contact as he clipped across the room. 

An hour passed, then two. The light faded into a chilly autumn night. Sam had had enough of pipeweed for one day. He went for a lantern, threw his cloak about his shoulders, and told Rose he was stepping out for a while. 

Flinging open the front door, he nearly tripped over Frodo, who was sitting right there on the front porch, wrapped tightly in his cloak. 

Sam let out a little sigh of relief. "Frodo." 

"Hm?" Frodo continued to gaze into the night. 

"The door's open," Sam told him. "When you come in, be sure to lock it." 

Sam saw Frodo's head nod slightly. "Thank you, Sam," Frodo said. "I will." 

Sam grunted. "See you in the morning." 

*

Three days later, Frodo's letter to Pippin was returned to Bag End, unopened. 

* * *

**END OF PART ONE**

* * *

  
  



	10. Chapter Nine: Barren Lands

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** PART TWO: WINTER **

** Chapter Nine: Barren Lands **

The very next morning Sam declared that it was time for Frodo to pay a visit to Hobbiton. Keeping a gentle but firm hold on Frodo's arm, Sam directed him from shop to shop, insisting that Frodo allow him to buy a few things that he would be needing and be fitted for some new clothes. 

By nightfall the word had gotten around that Frodo Baggins had returned to Hobbiton. It caused more than a bit of a stir, especially in regard to Sam's continued claim to Bag End. Frodo, having deeded it to Sam as his heir, had been presumed dead, or as good as; with it clearly evident that Frodo was very much alive, the deed would no longer be in force, until such time as the esteemed Mr. Baggins were to clearly and evidently show signs of decease. 

The matter was summarily resolved when Frodo gathered the necessary witnesses and drew up a new deed declaring that he, Mr. Frodo Baggins, hereby and immediately transferred Bag End and all its associated properties to Mr. Samwise Gardner, formerly Gamgee, current Mayor of the Shire. A simple transfer of property from living to living, and that was that, though folk still thought it more than a little odd. 

*

October was waning. On one of the last sunny days of autumn, neither too warm nor too chill, Frodo set out on an afternoon walk into Hobbiton. He walked at an unhurried pace, deep in reflection as he followed the lane that wound down the Hill into town. 

_I tried to save the Shire._

Crossing the bridge, he turned right on the Bywater Road. He nodded politely to those who met his eyes; few spoke, and those who did gave but a token, "Good day." Slender young trees stood watch as he passed along the road, trees flourishing beyond hope yet conspicuous against the memory of the venerable chestnuts which they had been planted to replace. To a stranger, or to a child too young to remember, Hobbiton would have seemed the very picture of serenity: neatly-maintained homes, well-tended lawns, not a hint that a mere nine years earlier the village had been shattered by war. But to one who remembered the destruction, the rebuilt village was an ever-present reminder of what had been lost. 

_I tried._

His earlier joy in homecoming seemed to have faded with the autumn leaves. Of course, he wouldn't let Sam see it; Sam would no doubt blame it on Pippin's rude conduct, though Frodo blamed himself for his own display of temper, a temper he thought had been extinguished by the long burden of his Quest. 

So much else _had_ been extinguished. 

Frodo sighed. _Where shall I find rest?_

At last he admitted to himself the truth he had been evading: He would never be free of the wounds of his Quest. 

_Half a lifetime, Sam. As much as half a lifetime to fill._

Half a lifetime of October sixths. Half a lifetime of March thirteenths, and of the dreadful path through Mordor to Mount Doom that followed each March thirteenth. 

He had been a fool to return. Or, perhaps, he had been a fool to sail in the first place. Wherever he dwelled, he was doomed to remember, doomed to suffer, doomed to be marked forever as the Ring-bearer, doomed to live the remainder of his years in exile. 

*

Frodo continued along the Bywater Road into the countryside west of Hobbiton. To his left rose a low, round hill, dotted with round green front doors. To his right, the Water flowed onward in its journey to the Sea. 

Somewhere, just around the next bend, a high female voice was lifted in song. The tune was all too familiar, that of an old walking song he'd known in another life, but the words being sung to it he'd never heard before: 

_When barren lands before me rise  
With no green to refresh my eyes,  
And, shadowed by their height, I see  
No place of rest to hearten me,  
I falter, and despair's dark load  
Would turn me from my appointed road.  
_   
_Still round the corner there may wait  
A point where shadows shall abate;  
And though today my view is bleak,  
At times the clearest sight grows weak.  
So I press on, that I may see  
What hope this road might show to me.  
_

"Good day, Frodo," greeted Molly Piper. She was hanging laundry on a line stretched in front of a modest but well-tended hole in the hillside facing the Water. 

Such a sweet, naive little song. He hadn't the heart to tarnish her hope-filled illusions with the truth. 

"Good day, Molly." Frodo nodded politely. "A fine day for hanging laundry." 

"It is, indeed." She pulled a couple of wooden clips from the pocket of her apron, slipping them over the hem of a dress to hold it fast on the line. "Not many more like this before the winter rains set in." 

"No," agreed Frodo. 

Molly slung a sheet over the line. "A fine day for a walk," she said. 

Frodo nodded. "It is." He smiled. "And if you will excuse me, I ought to be getting on. Sam will be expecting me home before supper." 

"Good day, then." She clipped the sheet into place. "I expect I'll be seeing you at Sam and Rose's, next time I drop by." 

"I expect you shall. Good day." With another nod, he walked onward along the road. 

* * *

  
  



	11. Chapter Ten: Despair's Dark Load

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Ten: Despair's Dark Load **

_Dark and empty._

_ Wandering the streets._

_Dark and empty._

_ Windows shuttered._

_Dark and empty._

_Listening, listening..._

_Only the wind._

_Only..._

_Never again._

_ Dark and empty._

*

With a sharp gasp Frodo bolted up from where he lay. 

Dark and empty. 

Blinking, he gradually grew cognizant of where and when he was: Bed. Night. Bag End. Shire. 

Home? 

His hand flew to his chest, as if to still the pounding within. 

Limbs trembling, he fumbled his way out of the blankets and into clothes. There would be no more sleep for him. 

*

Creeping down the hall, he slipped into the study, pulling the door not quite closed. He waited until his hands stopped shaking, then with extreme care lit the lamp by the desk. It did not take much rummaging to find a piece of paper. He sat at the desk, uncapped the ink well, dipped the pen, and set the pen to the paper; it began in the style of a simple journal entry—_I dreamt again, last night, of dark waves and a distant shore_—but soon the words began to shape themselves into verse. 

_I walked by the sea, and there came to me,  
as a star-beam on the wet sand,  
a white shell like a sea-bell...  
_

He scribbled frenetically, changing a word here, crossing out a word there, until a poem took form. He set down the pen, lifted the paper, blew gently to dry the ink. 

_Then I saw a boat silently float  
on the night-tide, empty and grey.  
"It is later than late! Why do we wait?"  
I leapt in and cried: "Bear me away!"  
_

_Bear me away._ Silently he mouthed the words, sinking back in the chair with a sigh. 

The opening and closing of a door down the hall startled him back upright. Quickly, Frodo looked about; his glance settled on the Red Book, and hastily he slipped the paper between the last page and the back cover and set the book back in place. 

"You're up early, this morning," came Sam's voice from the study door. 

Frodo stood and stretched. "Couldn't sleep," he said with a yawn. "I thought perhaps spending a bit of time amongst your mayoral papers would remedy the matter." 

"Hm." Sam snorted, a glint of mirth in his eyes. "A wonder it didn't work. Come along and have some breakfast." 

*

_It bore me away, wetted with spray,  
wrapped in a mist, wound in a sleep,  
to a forgotten strand in a strange land.  
_

*

Frodo took to solitary wandering around town and country, wrapped in somber silence. If he noticed that someone had greeted him, he would smile and return the greeting politely enough, but with "that drifty look in his eyes," as his neighbors called it. He seemed not to notice the whisperings, the sudden hushes as he passed, the murmurs that began anew when he was thought to be out of earshot. 

On this particular day in early winter, Frodo meandered eastward along the Water, avoiding the village, and let his thoughts drift until a strident male voice drifted into them. 

"...Mayor's always saying what a _hero_ he was. Hero!" The speaker snorted. "Stands around like a fool—or a coward, like as not—while the rest of us lays our lives on the line to rid the Shire of them ruff—oh! Ah—good day, Mr. Baggins." 

Frodo drew a deep breath. "Good day, Mr. Cooper, Mr. Goodchild," he replied, nodding to each in turn. The two Hobbit men nodded back and hurried past Frodo as quickly as good manners would allow. 

Halting, Frodo stared dully into the burbling stream. A fine misty drizzle began to seep into his uncovered hair. Rivulets of water trickled down his face from the stray curls plastered against his skin. 

*

_In the twilight beyond the deep  
I heard a sea-bell swing in the swell,  
dinging, dinging, and the breakers roar  
on the hidden teeth of a perilous reef;  
and at last I came to a long shore.  
_

*

He recalled the Field of Cormallen: _Praise the Ring-bearers! Praise them with great praise!_ And he remembered the great honor the Elves had bestowed upon him and upon Sam as they rode through the Shire to the Grey Havens, whence Frodo would sail with the same Elves to a place where the Ring-bearer's sacrifices would without a doubt be held in the highest esteem. 

The water rippled, churned, swelled into roaring surf... 

*

_Glittering sand slid through my hand,  
dust of pearl and jewel-grist...  
_

*

"Good day, Frodo." 

Just in time he prevented himself from sighing; even in his melancholy, he could not allow himself to hurt his kind-hearted neighbor. "Good day, Molly." He felt a tugging at the nape of his neck, and then his hood was sliding up to cover his rain-drenched curls. 

"If you'll pardon me for being forward," she said wryly. "That hood was put there for good reason." 

She must have noticed that she had failed to elicit so much as a hint of a smile. "What is it, has you so preoccupied this day?" she softly inquired. 

Frodo kept his eyes on the stream. "The Sea," he quietly responded. 

"Ah." There was a space of silence, then: "Is it the Sea itself, or that which lies beyond the Sea?" 

_That which lies..._

*

_But under cliff-eaves there were glooming caves,  
weed-curtained, dark and grey;  
a cold air stirred in my hair,  
and the light waned, as I hurried away.  
_

*

"Tol Eressëa. The Lonely Isle. Where the Elves find rest when they grow weary of this world." 

Gently came the response: "We are not Elves." 

The sky was gray. The land was gray. The rain, the waves, the water that joined land and sky; all was gray. 

*

_I have lost myself, and I know not the way...  
_

*

He turned sharply. Her eyes were brown, deep brown, as the tilled Earth in spring. "And where, then, do _we_ find rest?" 

Her gaze never wavered. "The same place we find unrest." 

*

_There still afloat waited the boat,  
in the tide lifting, its prow tossing.  
Weary I lay, as it bore me away...  
coming to haven, dark as a raven,  
silent as snow, deep in the night.  
_

*

"But I can see I am disturbing you. Good day, Frodo." 

By the time Frodo collected his wits, Molly was already walking on, up and over the rise, toward home. 

*

_...where drizzling rain poured down a drain  
I cast away all that I bore:  
in my clutching hand some grains of sand,  
and a sea-shell silent and dead.  
_

*

Frodo drifted onward, following the Water toward Bywater. He endured the usual stares and whispers as he passed through the town. On the other side of town he veered away from the river, slowly ascending a low hill until he reached a strip of tilled earth surrounding a boulder. Upon the boulder were engraved the names of the Hobbits who had fallen in the Battle of Bywater, back in 1419. It had been in that battle that the Hobbits of the Shire, led by Merry and Pippin and aided by Sam, had successfully driven away the ruffian Men who had taken the Shire by force while Frodo and his companions had been away on the Quest. It had been at that battle that Frodo stood by, horrified, as the people, _his_ people, all too readily shed their peaceable ways for a lust for blood and revenge. Sadly Frodo pondered the grave and its empty garden. 

*

_Never will my ear that bell hear,  
never my feet that shore tread;  
Never again...  
_

*

A tug at his cloak brought him back. 

"Why you sad?" 

Turning, Frodo looked down into an earnest childish face. In spite of his dark mood, he was deeply touched by the concern of the tiny lass. Smiling wanly, he searched for a suitable answer. "Oh—" 

"Petty!" A stout matron huffed her way up the hillside, half-stumbling in her frantic scramble. "Petunia Smallburrow," she sharply rebuked, grasping the child's hand. "You ought not to go about bothering folks. Begging your pardon, Mr. Baggins." She looked up at him with a smile that failed to conceal the fear in her eyes. "She'll not trouble you any further." 

"It was no troub—" But Mrs. Smallburrow had already fled down the path with Petunia. Frodo watched them go, and the shadows within him grew darker. 

*

_To myself I talk;  
for still they speak not, men that I meet.  
_

* * *

  
  



	12. Chapter Eleven: Looney

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Eleven: Looney **

"All right," declared Sam, pushing away his supper plate. "You and me, Mr. Frodo, we're going to the Green Dragon for a half-pint." 

It was a few days after Frodo had drifted home, late at night, hair, hood, and cloak soaked through with rain, only to find Sam waiting up for him. At the time Sam had said nothing about his disarray, merely greeted him and handed him a freshly-packed pipe and a match with which to light it. But Frodo had sensed that Sam was waiting for a suitable moment to speak his mind, and it seemed that Sam had now decided that moment had come. 

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo cordially declined, rising, "but I really don't much feel like—" 

"That's why we're going," countered Sam, taking hold of Frodo's elbow and directing him toward the front hall. "You've been moping about too much lately. It'll do you good to get out—for cheer, not gloom." He handed Frodo his cloak and hood and donned his own. Frodo stood still, holding the garments but making no move to put them on. 

"Come on," insisted Sam, crossing his arms. "I'm not taking 'no' for an answer." 

A faint light glimmered in Frodo's eyes as he looked up at Sam. "In that case," he conceded, drawing the cloak about his shoulders and pinning it, "there's no use in giving it to you." Sam laughed, and gave him a hearty pat on the back as they set out from Bag End. 

*

The evening was cool and cloudy but dry, a pleasant change from the usual weather at the end of November. Sam kept up a light but continual banter as he and Frodo trotted along the road. 

"—and I'm asking, why in the Shire do we need to have five copies of three documents signed by six witnesses in two colors of ink? It boggles the mind, it does, the things folks think of to keep a fellow busy, as if there weren't more than enough work to fill the space of a day, as it is. And I'm a-thinking to look into changing some of these _rules,_ Mr. Frodo. Never knew we had so many rules, even in proper ordinary Shire law—not the good kind of rules, mind you, the kind that see to it nobody's wanting or hurting or done by wrongly. Senseless rules. Extra work-making rules that don't have no rhyme nor reason that a sensible body can see—" 

By the time Frodo and Sam had passed through Hobbiton and were approaching Bywater, Frodo was laughing and in good spirits. 

"—and here we are, and won't a half-pint be just the thing—" 

As Sam started to open the door, a braying, slurred solo soared out of the smoky dark depths of the inn's common room. 

_Oh, there was a looney fellow  
What sailed out on the Sea;  
We don't know why, but this we know:  
He come back twice-looney!  
_

Raucous laughter burst forth as several voices joined in the chorus: 

_Oh, he come back twice-looney!  
He come back twice-looney!  
We don't know why, but this we know:  
He come back twice-looney!  
_

Sam let the door drop, cursing Sandyman under his breath with every foul word he knew. He looked over his shoulder, dreading what he might see on Frodo's face, but Frodo was already retreating at a good, brisk clip back toward Hobbiton. Throwing his hands in the air, Sam huffed and hurried to catch up. Years of domestic bliss had added a little more padding to his already robust belly; Sam immediately resolved to take up the habit of a daily constitutional. 

Once caught up with Frodo, Sam said nothing, but he reached for Frodo's hand and clasped it soundly as they walked back to Bag End in silence. 

*

All was quiet when Sam and Frodo got home. "Rosie must be in the nursery with the little ones," Sam remarked. With slow, thick movements he fumbled with and finally managed to unclasp the leaf-shaped brooch on his gray cloak. Heavily he slipped cloak and hood onto a peg, dropping the brooch into the hood. 

Then he turned to Frodo, who stood stolidly just inside the door, looking for all the world as if he were of a mind to turn around and wander off into the night until who-knew-when. Sam walked over to him and, as he would for one of his children, unfastened Frodo's cloak and slipped it from his shoulders. It was not, as Sam would have expected, the gray cloak of Lórien, but an old, faded green cloak, worn thin in places, clasped with a round knotwork brooch of slightly tarnished brass. He'd wanted since the day of Frodo's arrival to ask what had become of the Elven cloak, but he felt, somehow, that it wouldn't be quite proper to ask. However, he thought, another inquiry should be safe enough to venture. 

"Been meaning to ask, if you don't mind. I don't recognize this cloak of yours, yet I somehow think I ought to." He glanced at Frodo, whose eyes were fixed on a point somewhere beyond Sam. 

"It was Bilbo's," said Frodo in a voice as dull as his eyes. "His old journey-cloak. He gave it to me." 

"Oh." Now Sam felt worse than ever. He turned, busying himself with straightening all of the cloaks and all of the hoods on all of the pegs, making sure that each hood had its proper brooch tucked safely inside. When he looked back, Frodo was still standing silently in the open doorway. 

Slowly Sam shuffled back to Frodo and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Frodo. Is there, ah, anything I—" 

"Explain to our neighbors that grief and pain are not madness!" snarled Frodo, scowling as he shook off Sam's hand and stalked off down the hall. 

Sam watched him go, and soon heard the door of his bedroom slam shut. Shaking his head, Sam quietly closed and locked the front door, then followed down the corridor, drawing himself a half-pint before heading into the study. On the table next to his favorite chair he set down the beer; he then stooped in front of the hearth, where he began to arrange a few logs and kindling for a small fire. 

"Sam." 

Sam looked up: Hands in his pockets, Frodo stood in the doorway, his head low and his eyes hardly daring to make contact with Sam's. "Sam," he said again, contritely. "Sam, I _am_ sorry." 

Wordlessly Sam rose and walked over to Frodo, extending his arms. 

"Oh, Sam." Frodo's face quivered. "Sam." He fell against Sam, and Sam's sturdy arms wrapped securely around him, holding him tightly for a long, long while. 

*

Seated on the parlor sofa, Sam looked around the room at the oddments and mathoms crowding all the little shelves. He held Frodo's head gently, cradling it in his lap while Frodo reclined along the length of the sofa. After Frodo had spent his tears, Sam had taken him by the hand and led him to the parlor, where they had settled on the sofa and talked quietly of little things of no import, till Frodo had drifted off into a deep and, from all appearances, peaceful slumber. 

_Ah, peace. May it be._

Why would they send Frodo back unhealed? Why would they have sent him over Sea at all, if they couldn't heal him? Sam frowned, absently stroking Frodo's gray-threaded brown curls. That question would take some more thinking, it would. 

Not that it mattered, in a way. All the healing of the Elves couldn't give Frodo the honor of his own people. 

_Read to them things from the Red Book, Sam, that they will remember the Great Danger and love their beloved land all the more._

_That they will remember._

_Remember me, Sam._

_Tell them._

Wearily Sam sighed. Seven years was a long time and a lot of thinking. A lot had happened. Seven years of being a Dad and of being his own master had left their mark, right enough. _Change where you stand, change the view._ And the view had, indeed, changed. 

It was no good pretending he was still the simple, trustful young servant who thought his master to be the wisest Hobbit in all the world. Loyal, yes; always loyal. But not without question. No; there were too many questions, now, ever to go back. 

_We've all changed. All of us._

And there was the rub. It wasn't only Frodo who would never be the same. It was Sam. And Pippin. And Merry. And the Shire itself. Frodo had longed for home, but home, too, had changed—yet in ways he'd most desired, it had not changed at all. 

He'd learned a lot in seven years, Sam had, most especially in the last year or so since he'd become Mayor. 

When a fellow was Mayor of Michel Delving, Mayor of the Shire, he had to listen: listen everywhere, listen to everyone, listen to everything, hear things he'd rather not ever have known were being said, hear the things he'd spent most of his life not hearing. When a fellow was Mayor, he couldn't hear only the words of the friends of Bag End and shut out the rest by filling his thoughts with devotion to his gardens and to his master. A fellow who was Mayor had to be master enough to bear hearing words he'd rather had never been thought, still less spoken. 

Cracked. Looney. More than half a Brandybuck. And much worse, cruel slanders Sam would not repeat, even in the quiet of his own mind. Slanders that had followed the unruly young orphan from Buckland to take root and spread branches in Hobbiton and the country round. Not all had spread them, or even believed them, of course; Frodo had always had his friends. But with the eyes of his new position Sam could see that Frodo had never been granted a sense that he truly, fully _belonged_ to Hobbiton or to the Shire. 

If Frodo had come home a hero, if he'd at last won the respect of the Shire, would October and March have been more bearable? Enough, perhaps, to keep him on this side of the Sea? 

Or would he have followed Bilbo, all the same? 

Neither here nor there. Frodo had gone, and Frodo had come back, home, yet not home, wandering about in gloom at all hours and thereby adding fuel to what had become a wildfire legend of Looney Baggins, half-cracked nephew of Mad Baggins. 

And for all that, Frodo still wasn't healed. 

Sam let his head fall back against the sofa. It was all too much for his poor wits to wrap around. He glanced down again at Frodo and smiled tenderly, brushing a couple of errant curls away from Frodo's lined face. The sight brought to mind a time in Ithilien, when he had had a vision of Frodo, old and beautiful and full of light, sleeping in peace. 

_Why, and isn't that so,_ marveled Sam. _I told you rightly that old Sharkey was a stinking liar. I saw for myself that you'd have a long life, indeed. You're not half-through yet; I always knew it was so, in my heart. I knew it._

A little sigh slipped out. _Now how to get you to know it, that's the thing._ Sam let his thoughts grow still, resting his hand lightly upon Frodo's brow. 

"You're so fixed on going after the road you can't go back to, you miss the road that's a-waiting for you here and now." 

Where that came from, Sam didn't know; but as he gazed fondly upon his sleeping friend, he knew he had spoken truly, though he didn't wholly understand, himself, all that he had meant by it. 

That would take some more thinking, it would. 

* * *

  
  



	13. Chapter Twelve: Dreams

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Twelve: Dreams **

_...wandering...wandering...in mist-shrouded marshland...wandering..._

_...faces...faces...staring, accusing..._

_Hobbit faces._

_Faces of the dead...their names forever graven upon stone...their silent accusations forever graven upon his heart..._

_...faces...silent, dark, empty..._

_...one face rising, surfacing, floating, staring, damning..._

_...hand rising, reaching, clawing, grasping, pulling him down, down, drown, drown, drown..._

*

"Lotho." 

The word ripped out of him, a harsh, wheezing gasp. Frodo clutched his pounding chest, panting, trembling. The night air was cold against his sweat-damp skin. He shivered. 

With a sudden jerk he swiped his arm over his brow and slung his legs over the side of his bed. Pushing himself up, he yanked his robe from a hook on the wall and wrapped himself in it, tugging the sash securely closed. He turned the doorknob slowly and opened the door quietly, slipping into the hall. 

Chamomile tea. 

Frodo started toward the kitchen, then stopped. _No,_ he decided. _Something stronger._ Grimacing, he turned about and headed in the other direction, toward the wine cellar. 

_What—?_

Frodo halted. Listened. 

Soft whimpering, plaintive cries, growing stronger: "Mummy...Mummy..." 

His heart wrenched. In two steps he was at the nursery door, opening it gently and peering into the dim. 

"Mummy..." 

"Rose," Frodo softly called. "Rose-lass." 

The whimpering continued, softly, into the child's pillow. 

"Rose-lass," murmured Frodo, kneeling by her bed. "Hush. Hush. Uncle Frodo's here." 

She lifted her head, then, giving him a brief, appraising look before crawling into his arms and nestling against his shoulder, thumb in her mouth. 

"What is it, lass?" Frodo inquired, stroking the child's back. "What's got my little lass so sad?" 

Breathing in raggedly, Rose-lass gulped, "Scary." 

"Mmm." Frodo nodded. "What's scary?" 

Rose sniffed. "Hedgehog." 

Frodo stifled a chuckle. "Ahhh. Hedgehog," he repeated sagely. 

"Scary hedgehog teeth bite and eat up Mummy and Daddy and baby Merry and—" The words disintegrated into a wail, and Rose began sobbing anew. 

"Hush, love, hush. It was only a dream." 

"_Hedge_hog—" 

"All right. Hedgehog," conceded Frodo. "But it's gone, now. Scary hedgehog is gone. It can't hurt you now." 

"Mummy?" 

"Nor Mummy. Nor Daddy. Nor Baby Merry. Nor anyone." Swaying gently, Frodo patted the child's back in soft rhythm to his words. "Mummy's all right. Daddy's all right. Baby Merry's all right. We're all of us all right. Safe at home. Safe at home. Safe at home." Rose grew still in his arms. Frodo continued to sway, back and forth, back and forth, humming a bit of a long-forgotten lullaby. 

"Rock." 

Smiling to himself, Frodo pushed up to his feet and made his way to the rocking chair. He sat, rocking gently, back and forth, humming the sweet lullaby, pat, pat. He could feel the child's weight settling against him, the movement of her hand back to her mouth. Pat, pat. 

_It was only a dream._

He remembered. What terrible dream had driven him from childish sleep was long forgotten, but he remembered the feeling of his father's arms wrapped snugly around him, the warmth of his father's breath upon his ear, the smooth round tenor of his father's song, the same lullaby. Oh, how old had he been? He couldn't have been more than four, perhaps only three, nearly as young as little Rose. It must have been his earliest memory; Frodo couldn't bring to mind an earlier. 

He wondered if Rose would remember the hedgehog; if she would remember Uncle Frodo, rocking and singing. 

He was suddenly very glad that she would have Uncle Frodo to remember. 

Bad dreams or no. 

What dreams had Mum and Dad dreamed? Good dreams, surely; hopeful dreams, loving dreams, dreams of promise and anticipation. Dreams of what their son might become. Dreams of watching him grow; dreams of growing old together. 

_It was only a dream._

Frodo sighed, letting his hand rest upon Rose's back. He'd dreamed, too, once. More than dreamed: He _knew,_ had it all planned out, how his life should be. Not for him an early courtship. _Not yet,_ he'd said to the winks and smiles and hints dropped like lace handkerchiefs in his path. Always it had been, _Not yet._

Later, yes; he was sure of it. But not yet. Not until he'd had his fill of being his own master, coming and going without bond or care. Not until he'd done some traveling, had an adventure or two, journeyed afar, seen the world, perhaps even found Bilbo... 

And then? 

Then, someday, then, satisfied with wandering, he would come home at last, someday, to settle into a comfortable home to tell all of the grand tales he had to tell of his travels to a large circle of wide-eyed, adoring— 

He blinked, fiercely, driving back sudden tears. No use pining for what might have been and now could never be. It couldn't be. Not now. Not ever. He was sure of it. 

Besides, the tales he had to tell were only fit to inflict a lifetime of nightmares. 

Softly, steadily, came the hush of Rose's breathing, peaceful in sleep. 

"They can't hurt you, now," Frodo murmured, closing his eyes and resting his cheek on the child's curly head. 

* * *

  
  



	14. Chapter Thirteen: What the Rain Brought

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Thirteen: What the Rain Brought **

"All right, lad." Frodo shook the dice in his hand and rolled them onto the game board that lay between himself and Fro. "How many?" he asked Fro, his hand hovering above his game piece. 

Winter had begun in earnest, with a howling wet storm that had arrived in the night and been rattling the shutters ever since. On such a day, the rug in front of the parlor hearth was a cozy place to take refuge. Frodo was lying on his stomach, sprawled on the rug, and Fro was likewise sprawled across from him, his elbows propped on the rug and his hands cupping his little round face. _So very like Sam,_ thought Frodo, smiling as he remembered his first acquaintances with Bilbo's gardener's youngest son. 

The child scrunched his face and counted the dots on the dice. "Six!" 

"Very good." Frodo tapped the game piece along the squares. "Into the apple orchard!" he crowed, glancing over at Fro. 

"Oh, no you're not!" protested the lad. "You _said_ we have to land on an _exact count_, and _you_ had _six_, but the apple orchard's only _five_." 

Frodo winked, and dutifully moved his piece. "I was just testing your maths, my lad." Fro gave him a lopsided grin that as good as said _I don't believe you_, but he said nothing as he reached for the dice. 

A great slam of a door made both Frodos jump. 

"Hullo, hullo! Is anybody home? I should hope so, with the front door—" 

"Merry!" cried Frodo, scrambling to his feet and running down the hall to embrace his cousin. 

Merry returned the embrace with a strength that threatened to knock the wind out of Frodo. "Oh, Frodo, it is so good to see you again!" He gave Frodo a hearty pat on the back and stepped back to have a better look. "You are looking well," was the verdict. "I must say, Sam and Rose are keeping you fed." 

"Uncle Merry! Uncle Merry! Uncle Merry!" 

"And my other favorite Frodo." Merry grinned at the child, who was jumping around excitedly in circles, and gathered him into his arms to swing him around in a playful hug. "How's my lad?" 

"Uncle Frodo's playing Apples and Plums with me, and _I'm_ winning!" Fro bragged. 

"Well, that's none too difficult," Merry dryly remarked, and was rewarded with a light jab in the ribs from the elder Frodo. 

"Come play with us!" urged Fro, pulling on Merry's arm. 

"Half a minute, lad, half a minute." Gently Frodo took hold of Fro's hand and pried it loose from Merry. "Give him a moment to hang up his things and dry off. You're soaked through," he said to Merry, clicking his tongue. 

"Not at all," countered Merry, "though I couldn't help getting a _bit_ damp. It is raining cats and dogs, and sheep and pigs as well. Have to watch your head, in weather like this," added Merry, winking at Fro. Fro giggled. 

"Why don't you go set up a new game, for the three of us," suggested Frodo to Fro, "while I help Uncle Merry with his things?" 

"Yes, Uncle Frodo," and he was scurrying down the hall. 

Merry watched Frodo watching after him. "You're quite fond of your namesake," he commented, hanging his dripping cloak on a hook in the front hall. 

"I am." Frodo smiled. "Though I was rather less than fond when I learned he'd been terrifying his little sister with tales of nasty sharp-toothed hedgehogs that devour Hobbits for breakfast." 

"Go on!" gasped Merry, grinning. "What an imagination!" 

"Oh, he thought he was clever, indeed," said Frodo, eyes alight. "But not so clever by the time Uncle Frodo had a word with him. A solemn look in the eye and a sigh of, 'Fro, I am so very disappointed in you,' and I swear, I thought he was about to flood the valley." 

Merry ran his hands vigorously through his damp hair. "Poor mite." 

"Hm," snorted Frodo. "Poor Rose-lass, who woke up half out of her skin with fright dreaming about the nasty hedgehog devouring Mummy and Daddy and everyone else within range." 

"Uncle _Frodo!_ Uncle _Merry!_" called Fro from the parlor. 

"Coming, Fro," answered Merry, giving Frodo a playful cuff on the arm. Under his breath he added, "Can't blame the lad for being a rascal. Look who he's named after." That earned him another elbow in the ribs, and he and Frodo were laughing as they entered the parlor to settle in for a round or two of Apples and Plums. 

* * *

  
  



	15. Chapter Fourteen: Merry

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Fourteen: Merry **

Rose and Sam prepared a grand dinner in honor of Merry's visit, and Molly, who had dropped by for a visit in the afternoon, joined them at everyone's insistence. After the children had gone to bed for the night, and Molly set out for home, Rose retired to her room and Sam, Frodo, and Merry retired to the study. 

"Will you be staying for Yule?" asked Sam, pulling a chair over to join the two that already sat by the hearth. 

"I can't, Sam." Merry's tone was regretful. "I have to be home to oversee the Grand Yule Party of Brandy Hall." 

"Ah." Sam nodded sympathetically. "And how is your father?" 

"Doing well, doing well," answered Merry around the pipe clenched in his mouth. He lit it and puffed a few times. "But the old fellow is nearing ninety, after all, and the Yule party is an enormous undertaking—as you know, Frodo." 

"Oh, yes." Frodo shifted in his chair, settling into a comfortable position. "Though all the same, it is a pity you cannot stay to celebrate Yule with us." 

"Well, I have the week," said Merry, brightening. "I am content to have at last got here at all and to have seen for myself that you truly have come home." 

"I have," Frodo said thoughtfully. "Though I still don't understand why." 

"Come now, Frodo!" cut in Sam, lofting his mug of ale. "You're here, and that's all as matters now." 

"Hear, hear!" Merry raised his own mug, and Frodo, smiling, joined them in the toast. 

"Well." Leaning forward, Merry grinned at Sam and Frodo. "Here is an amusing matter: My father has been dropping rather broad hints that it is time for me to take a wife." 

"And how is that amusing?" asked Sam, drinking. "Having a wife is a very fine thing—take it from me." He grinned and set down his mug, taking up his pipe. 

"Oh, no, no," laughed Merry. "I've no objection to _having_ a wife; I mean only that till now I've never given much thought to the actual _acquiring_ of one." 

"You won't have much luck if you treat her like a thing to be acquired." 

"Oh, Sam. It was only a figure of speech; the woman I marry shall always and ever know that she is held by me in only the highest esteem. Respected. Cherished. Dare I say—" His eye gleamed wickedly as he glanced toward Frodo. "Precious?" 

"Only if you wish to have that mug of ale tipped over your head," retorted Frodo, but with just enough humor to let Merry know it was all right. 

Merry grinned and sipped his ale. "All right, Sam. You're Mayor; you get about a fair bit. Can you recommend any eligible lasses?" 

"Hm." Sam pondered. "Well, there's Miss Molly; near as I can see she's not being courted by no one." 

"Oh, really, Sam!" exclaimed Frodo, laughing. "I can't think of anyone less interested in courtship—" 

"Unless it's you." 

"Sam!" Frodo's face went crimson. Sam shrugged innocently and blew a smoke ring. 

"I have to agree with you, Frodo," Merry quickly interjected. "She seems to be as confirmed a spinster as you are a bachelor." 

"She's not a spinster," countered Frodo, hiding behind his mug of ale. "She's a button and bead maker." Merry and Sam groaned in unison. 

"In fact," added Frodo, dodging a throw pillow that had been in Sam's chair, "I bought these very buttons from her." 

Merry leaned in for a closer look at Frodo's waistcoat. "Very nice," he said. "One could almost mistake the pattern for the Baggins seal." 

Frodo bounced the pillow off his grinning face. "It's custom work, you old ass, as well you can guess." Merry laughed and settled back in his chair. 

"An old ass I may be," Merry agreed, "but, for the moment, an unburdened ass." 

"If that's your take on marriage, maybe it's as well you're still a bachelor," Sam dryly cut in. "Think I'll be having myself a talk with Mr. Saradoc before he saddles some hapless lass with you." 

Merry laughed. "I assure you, Sam, he'll not 'saddle' any poor lass against her will or mine. He's only hinting, though rather strongly; but however much he'd like to see me wed, he'd never rope this old ass into an arranged marriage, as poor Pippin's father did to him." 

"What?" sputtered Frodo. He blinked, gaping at Merry. "Pardon me, but did I hear you correctly?" 

"Well...not exactly _arranged,_" admitted Merry. "The way I heard the tale, his father had been having many meetings with the northern Tooks to bring the northern and southern clans together in closer alliance—" 

"Pippin married a Northfarthing Took," interjected Sam for Frodo's benefit. 

"Diamond, of Long Cleeve," Merry added. "She and Pippin got along well enough before, mind you; and given time, they likely would have chosen the same outcome of their own accord. Unfortunately, Uncle Paladin took notice of their friendship, and instead of taking Pippin aside and _asking_ if he might be _considering_ a marriage, he announced—deep in his cups, so the story goes—he _announced_ at a _huge_ gathering of Tooks north and south that Pippin and Diamond were planning to be wed, in a grand alliance of the Northfarthing and the Tookland." 

"Oh, _no,_" gasped Frodo. "Poor Pippin." 

"Indeed." Merry's mouth twisted. "And with an entire hall full of Tooks north and south pressing around him and congratulating him, what could he do?" 

"But what about Diamond?" asked Frodo incredulously. "Surely she was upset, as well?" 

"You'd think she would have been, but as it turned out, she thought Pippin had put Uncle Paladin up to the whole thing, to surprise her—a very Pippin way of proposing, you might say—had, of course, it been Pippin's proposal, and not Paladin's gaffe." 

"I see." Frodo contemplated the contents of his mug. "And so Pippin, being Pippin, resigned himself, out of duty—" 

"And pride." 

"And pride," agreed Frodo. He nodded. "But he wasn't truly ready to settle down, yet, and so he wanders from tavern to inn, clinging desperately to the old life that's been pulled out from under him." He sighed. "And trying to forget the War." 

Merry looked to Sam. Sam drew a deep breath. 

"Now, Frodo," admonished Sam. "Don't go feeling too sorry for Master Took. He weren't feeling none too sorry for you when he lit into you like he did." 

"You and Pippin had a tiff?" asked Merry before Frodo could answer Sam. 

Frodo sighed. "It's my fault, really. I chided Pippin for—for using an expression not generally heard outside of a barnyard. It hardly bears repeating." 

Merry laughed. "It wasn't _that_ wicked—" he began, then, catching himself, went very red. 

"What!" exclaimed Frodo, casting a hard look at him. 

"Sam told me." Merry quickly distracted himself with a swig of ale. 

"Indeed?" Frodo glanced back at Sam. 

Sam sipped his ale. "I might've mentioned it in a letter." 

"Might?" 

"Come, now, Frodo," Sam cheerfully appeased. "Surely you don't fault me for keeping up with my letters to a dear friend?" 

Frodo regarded Sam searchingly, eyebrows raised. "I don't; but I shall never again believe you when you claim to be doing 'mayoral business' at your desk." 

"Oh, that's hard, Mr. Frodo, it is," sighed Sam, fluttering a hand over his heart and rolling his eyes. 

"Go on!" groaned Merry, tossing the small pillow at Sam. 

"'Sides," drawled Sam, reaching up to catch the pillow. "I don't see what the fuss is. You've heard barnyard talk, and worse, from me, but I never heard you take me to task for it." 

"You're not my little cousin," retorted Frodo. 

Merry and Sam both laughed. "Neither is Pippin," said Merry. 

Frodo had to laugh. "Yes, I see he's grown even more since I left. How tall _is_ he?" 

"Four and eight, last I was told," answered Sam. 

"Good heavens." Frodo shook his head, and took a drink from his mug of ale. "He could almost pass for one of the Bree Men." 

"Perhaps," agreed Merry, eyes twinkling. "If he keeps his hair over the tips of his ears and shaves his feet." 

Frodo snorted, spraying ale all over Merry. Sam roared with laughter, and Merry threw his hands up in the air—spilling more ale upon his waistcoat and shirt—and joined in. 

"Oh—oh—" gasped Frodo, shaking so hard he could barely keep himself sitting upright. "Oh—_Meriadoc,_ do _not_—_ever_—" He collapsed in mirth, provoking another wave of laughter from Sam and Merry. Frodo gulped, and tried again. "The _picture,_ the very _picture_—" 

"Shave his feet," chortled Sam, doubling over and slapping his knee; and Frodo threw back his head and let out another round of loud, wide-mouthed cackling. 

"Sam, Sam," choked Merry. "Enough! Poor Frodo can hardly breathe—" he snorted "—and I'm not faring too well, myself." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Oh. My." 

Sam looked at Merry with round-eyed innocence. "You're the one as started it, Mr. Merry, sir." 

"Sam! _Enough!_" pleaded Frodo, struggling valiantly to regain his composure. "'Mr. Merry, sir,' indeed—" and he was lost again in sputtering, snorting, and snickering. 

Grinning, Sam lofted his mug. "Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo, sir," he drolly recited, and tipped his head back to gulp down the rest of his half-pint. "Be needing more ale," he said to Merry, pushing himself out of the chair. 

"Bring a pitcher, Sam," called Frodo between bursts of mirth. 

"I think _you've_ had quite enough," chided Merry, clicking his tongue. 

Frodo rolled his eyes pitifully at Merry. "Oh, that's hard, Mr. Merry, sir, it is." 

When Sam got back from the cellar, he found both Frodo and Merry sprawled on the floor, laughing hysterically. He shook his head and poured himself a fresh half-pint. 

"Oh, Frodo," gasped Merry. He grabbed the pillow from where it had fallen and lobbed it half-heartedly at his cousin. "It's good to have you back." 

Frodo batted the pillow back to Merry, his eyes shining. "It's good to _be_ back," he said, and in that moment, at least, he meant it. 

* * *

  
  



	16. Chapter Fifteen: No Place of Rest

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Fifteen: No Place of Rest **

Sleeping in a strange bed always took some getting used to. 

Merry stretched, swore softly as his hands hit the headboard, and yawned as he pulled himself up, resting his arms on his knees. The faintest hint of gray seeping between the boards of the shutters told him it was far too early for a sensible Hobbit on a holiday to be awake, but he never slept as well on the typically too-short beds of the Shire as he did in his own bed, tailored to accommodate his exceptional height, so with a sigh of resignation he swung his long legs over the edge and rested his feet on the floor, allowing himself a few more moments to awaken fully before rising and venturing forth. 

Wrapping his velvet robe around him, Merry made his way toward the kitchen, but only got as far as the parlor, where Frodo, also clad in robe and nightshirt, was standing, silently picking up one knickknack, then another, turning them carefully in his hands and contemplating them before setting them back gently on the little round table on which they were displayed. 

"You're up early." 

Frodo did not turn. "I usually am." 

Merry stepped into the parlor, ducking his head to avoid banging it on the archway. "Did you sleep well?" 

"As well as I usually do." 

Merry groaned. "All right. Out with it, cousin." 

"Out with what?" Frodo mildly asked. 

"_Frodo._" 

Frodo's shoulders slumped, and he let out a quiet sigh. "Pippin." 

Merry nodded, an effort quite wasted on Frodo, as Frodo still refused to turn around. "I understand," Merry gently prompted, "that there was more to your tiff than a silly barnyard expression." 

Frodo turned a little clay rabbit in his hands. "I suppose Sam wrote about that, too." 

"He did." Merry watched, waited, staring at Frodo's back. 

Frodo sighed. "I do owe you an apology for slipping off as I did. You deserved a proper farewell, after all you and Pippin endured for my sake." 

"Frodo..." Merry ran his fingers through his hair, casting about. "I was not in the least surprised that you tried to slip off without a word." He let out a little chuckle. "I know you too well; you loathe confrontations." 

"Including this one." 

Merry considered a retort, but decided to let it pass. "I could see that you chose the Sea out of desperation, not desire. If you _had_ given us ample warning, you risked being talked out of leaving—and, being desperate, you of course could not have taken that risk." 

Frodo tossed the clay rabbit into the air and caught it in his palm. "You've got it all figured out, haven't you." 

"You're in a rare mood this morning, aren't you." 

"Not as rare as you suppose." 

Sighing, Merry watched as Frodo set down the rabbit and picked up a small glass hedgehog. "Anyway," he said. "It wasn't what Pippin said about your departure over Sea that I was thinking of." 

"Then what—oh, are you referring to the fact that he called me—" Frodo's hand clenched around the ornament, and Merry could see the sinews in his neck tauten. "It isn't true." 

Merry breathed in sharply through his teeth. "You look too much like a Baggins for it to be true." 

Frodo set the glass figure on the table and turned, tilting his head up to look his cousin in the eye. "You don't lie very well, Merry, and neither does the mirror I look into every morning." 

Merry sighed heavily. "Did you ever have reason to believe that Drogo did not love you?" 

A smile flickered as Frodo lowered his gaze, his expression softening. 

"Well, there it is." Gently Merry lifted his chin, until Frodo was again looking in his eyes. "Let it go, Frodo. Whatever happened, it's sixty years in the past and doesn't change a thing, then or now." 

"I've tried." The deep, primal sorrow in Frodo's eyes made Merry's chest tighten. "Don't you think I've tried? Some things won't be let go of, though, no matter how I try, or think the years have at last swept them away." 

Instinctively Merry drew Frodo close. It was an odd reversal of the old days, he thought, when he had been the one leaning on his taller cousin's breast in search of solace for some ineffable grief. 

"I still miss them," Frodo whispered. 

"I know," murmured Merry, languidly brushing his fingers through Frodo's graying curls. "I know you do. And so does Pippin—truly, he did not mean to open that old wound. I am sure of it. Our dear Pip simply has a way of letting his tongue run ahead of his good sense—such as he has." 

Frodo had to laugh, just a little. 

Merry smiled. "Pippin will come round," he assured Frodo. "Give him time to sort things out." 

But Frodo sobered. "I pushed him away," he sighed. "If he never speaks to me again, I've nobody to blame but myself." 

"Enough of that." Merry grinned and tousled Frodo's curls, as if he were more six than sixty. "You'd blame yourself for the weather, given half a pretext. Pippin did a fair amount of pushing, himself, you know—" 

"Yes, I know," retorted Frodo. "And so, apparently, does half the Shire. Does Sam follow me about jotting my every word to be flung to the Four Farthings?" 

"Sam _loves_ you and _cares_ about you and is worried half sick that you're going to bloody wander off—or worse," snapped Merry. He glared at Frodo for a moment, then shook himself, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry. That didn't come out right." 

"No." Frodo's voice was soft but firm. "That came out quite clear. And you may assure Sam that I shan't be wandering off anywhere." He clapped Merry on the arm. "There's nowhere else, now, for me to go." 

Merry knew very well what Frodo meant, but lightly answered: "What about Buckland? You still haven't favored us with a visit since you've got back. And I don't believe you've seen Freddy, yet—" 

"Oh! Heavens, no, I haven't," gasped Frodo, looking abashed. "Good heavens, Merry, I forgot to write to poor Fredegar—I suppose nobody calls him 'Fatty' anymore, since—" 

"He is called 'Freddy,' now," affirmed Merry, sparing Frodo the return to yet another unpleasant memory. It seemed they couldn't say five words without running into something that one or both of them would as soon avoid. 

And Frodo, he saw, could see it in his eyes. 

"It's you, too," he said quietly, sympathetically. 

Merry nodded. "It's all of us," he said. 

*

"I hate the rain," grumbled Fro. He was clutching the sill of the parlor window, staring disconsolately at the rivulets of water streaming down the panes against a drab gray sky. 

Frodo smiled to himself as he walked into the parlor. "I know a tale of how a terrible storm brought great good fortune, in the end, to those who weathered it." With a great dramatic groan he sank to the sofa and leaned back, stretching. "But I don't know of anyone who might wish to hear such a tale. Do you?" 

In a flash, Fro was on the sofa next to Frodo. "I do! I do!" 

"Me! Me! Me!" piped Rosie-lass, scrambling to claim the other prized spot next to Uncle Frodo. 

"Uncle Frodo, you are teasing us," Elanor primly protested. 

"So I am," said Frodo with a wink as Elanor sat next to the still-squirming Rosie. "Now, settle down, all of you," he rumpled Rosie's hair, "and I shall begin. Once upon a time..." 

Merry caught Frodo's eye long enough to wink and nod in the direction of the study, then slipped away. Sam was, as usual, bent over a stack of papers on his desk. Merry tapped lightly upon the open door. 

Sam looked up. "Hullo, Merry." He put his pen in the holder and beckoned the other Hobbit inside. "Don't mind me. I've got a bit of business to be catching up on, but I could do with a break." 

Merry pulled up a footstool to sit next to Sam at his desk. "Is that _really_ Mayoral business?" he inquired with an arch glance. 

"Enough of that," muttered Sam, grinning. He looked pointedly toward the door. 

"He'll be busy for a while," Merry assured Sam. He sobered. "Odd, isn't it," he mused, "how the oldest wounds still cut so deeply, even after the horrors he's known." 

Sam exchanged sharp looks with Merry. Lowering his voice, he asked, "What _is_ the truth of the matter? Speaking plainly." 

"The _truth_ of the matter," replied Merry, "went to the grave with Drogo and Primula. But if you want my _opinion_—" Merry glanced again at the door. From the parlor, the gentle cadence of Frodo's storytelling drifted distantly. "Well," Merry whispered, leaning sharply toward Sam. "It really isn't my place to say, and of course the whole matter was ended long before I was born, but if you want my opinion, _I_ think there was naught to it but a wicked rumor passed round in hopes of undercutting Frodo's position as Bilbo's heir. And it just so happened that Frodo had the good fortune to inherit the fair looks of the Brandybuck side, and Lobelia thought to turn that to her advantage." 

"Lobelia?" echoed Sam. 

"Hush," urged Merry, looking anxiously at the open door. "Yes. Lobelia. I am of the firm belief that the blame for besmirching Primula's good name and breaking Frodo's heart is to be laid squarely at her feet." 

"I don't know." Sam frowned. "Even for Lobelia, that seems awfully cruel." 

"She was cruel enough to at least _repeat_ it," Merry hissed. "To his face, no less. In my hearing. On the very day Bilbo left. Frodo made a jest of it at the time, but I heard him weeping his heart out later, when he thought I was asleep. Whether because of Lobelia, or for loss of Bilbo..." He looked down, drawing in a sharp breath. 

Merry felt Sam's hand on his arm, a clumsy effort at comfort. "Still and all," Sam quietly observed, "Frodo did forgive her, in the end." 

Merry grimaced, looking up again into Sam's eyes. "Frodo's more noble than I." Sudden anguish threatened again to overwhelm him. "He still bears the pain, Sam—all of it, I mean. From everything. They were supposed to take that from him." 

"Mm." Sam's eyes clouded in thought. "Or maybe he was supposed to learn that they couldn't." 

Merry gaped at him, but before he could think what to say, he heard a burst of chatter from the parlor. He fixed his eyes sternly on Sam's. "He must not _ever_ know what it was like for us after he left. Never. Promise me that." 

Sam did not waver in his gaze, nor in his reply. "I swore it in my heart from the moment I first laid eyes on him again." They exchanged a hasty, strong clasp of hands, and let go just as Frodo walked into the study. 

"Hullo, Frodo!" hailed Merry cheerfully, rising. "Meaning no insult to your fine storytelling, but I thought I'd amuse myself with bothering Sam for a while." 

"No bother at all, no bother at all." Sam brushed away the very notion with a wave of his hand. He took up his pen. "But I do have work to tend to, if you take my meaning." 

"I do," laughed Frodo, "even if my dear cousin does not. Come, Merry. The Mayor of the Shire needs peace and quiet and room to think. Let us leave the Mayor to his business whilst we drain his cellar dry." 

Merry grinned and took Frodo's arm. "How could I turn down so excellent a proposal? Lead on, cousin!" He sauntered down the hall with Frodo, striking up a drinking tune; and Sam was left in his study with plenty of peace and quiet in which to think. And think he did, chewing absently on the end of his pen, though he did not make much progress on the pile of Mayoral business waiting on his desk. 

* * *

  
  



	17. Chapter Sixteen: Remembering

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Sixteen: Remembering **

"What _are_ you doing?" 

Sam grunted, giving a final push to the bed he and Frodo were guiding into place across the foot of the guest room bed, forming an L shape. "Adding a little leg room," he told Merry. 

"I only wish we'd thought of it right away," said Frodo. "It can't be terribly comfortable sleeping on a bed that leaves your feet dangling." 

"Well, now that you mention it, cousin," Merry grinned, "no, it's not." 

"I'll be helping Rosie put the young ones to bed," Sam cut in, nodding a goodnight as he left. 

"Thank you, Sam," Merry called after him. "And you, Frodo," he added, unbuttoning his waistcoat. 

"It's almost like old days," declared Frodo, flopping onto the extra bed. 

"Oh, no, you don't," protested Merry. "Sleep in your own bed, if you please. I shan't sleep a wink if I have to listen to you snoring all night." 

"I do _not_ snore." 

"Oh, yes, you do." Merry draped his jacket and waistcoat over the back of the small wooden chair by the wall and stretched out on his newly-lengthened bed. "Ahhhh. I shall have to remember this when I am traveling, though I wonder what the innkeepers will say when I request two beds." 

Frodo chortled. "They'll probably say it's high time you found yourself a wife." 

"Tsk. Such scandalous thoughts. I never thought I'd hear the like from you." 

"See here, little cousin," retorted Frodo, folding his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling, "I may be an old bachelor, but I do know a thing or two about the way of life, and about the way innkeepers' minds work. I was merely saying." 

"Well, I seem to be turning into an old bachelor myself," Merry dryly admitted. "And I know that old bachelors' thoughts do turn to matters romantic, now and again, whatever constraints honor may place upon our actions." 

"Oh, do tell." Frodo suddenly snorted. "Oh! Do you remember—and this is going back to very old days—back when I'd not been long as Master of Bag End, and you used to visit all the time, and you asked me—" 

"When you gave me the Talk?" Merry's eyes lit up, full of mirth. 

Frodo turned his head to grin at Merry. "'Cousin Frodo, what do fellows mean when they talk of liking lasses?'" He burst out laughing. 

Merry pouted, forgetting for a moment that it was undignified for a Hobbit pushing fifty to do so. "Now, Frodo, I was barely into my tweens—" 

"I know, I know," admitted Frodo, wiping his eyes. "But it was so sweet, so innocent a question, and so charmingly put—and all I could think at the time was, oh, lad, you'll find out soon enough without my telling." 

Merry grinned. 

"But, as your older cousin, I felt it was my duty to give you the Talk if you hadn't had it by then." 

"If I'd waited for my father to give it, I'd probably still be wondering." 

Frodo favored him with an exceptionally skeptical look. "Uncle Saradoc couldn't possibly have been any more shy about it than Bilbo, and even Bilbo brought himself to do the deed—though not without a fair amount of blushing." 

Merry laughed. "What would Bilbo have known about the matter?" 

"As much as you or I or any other bachelor, I should guess," Frodo crisply retorted. "He wasn't _always_ old, you know." 

"Oh, I know," Merry hastily assured Frodo. He'd forgot how touchy Frodo could be when the subject was Bilbo. Still, he added, "But I'd thought..." He could feel the heat rise in his face, and he shifted his gaze to the wall on the other side of the room. 

"Thought what?" 

"Oh, nothing." 

But Frodo was not to be that easily dissuaded. "Out with it. What dreadful gossip have you been dredging up now?" 

"Not _now,_" corrected Merry. "A long time ago." 

"And...?" 

"And," Merry drew a long breath. "Well, it was what they said that made me wonder what folks meant by liking lasses, because they were saying..." 

"They were saying...?" 

Merry let out an explosive, exasperated sigh and rolled onto his back, avoiding looking at Frodo. "'He's one of them fellows who don't like lasses, if you take my meaning.'" 

"_What?_" 

Merry flinched and covered his ears. "I knew you wouldn't like it," he meekly protested. 

"Honestly, Merry, the rubbish you listen to—" 

"Frodo, I was only a lad—" 

"And now you're not, but you still _believe_ it, even at your age. Honestly, Merry. If you want the truth, I don't think there _are_ any such fellows—at least not amongst Shire Hobbits, save in the wild imaginings of common-room gossip—and we all know how reliable _that_ is. But even if there are, I don't think it's our place to be speculating about the private matters of others, least of all of our elders. I find the whole matter exceptionally distasteful." 

"As do I," Merry staunchly insisted. "I did not say I _approved_ of the gossip, I merely reported it—because you insisted." 

"Well. I do know that Bilbo had his eye on a few lasses—not all at once," Frodo quickly added, dreading what sordid rumor his gossip-happy cousin might be able to retrieve on that account. "At various times, in his younger years, before he left on his adventure; but none of those interests ever got to the point of courtship. If you want the truth," said Frodo with a soft smile, "I think that Bilbo was already wedded to his books." 

Merry smiled back. "And it would seem you take after him, then." 

"Oh, no. I like my books, but I would also have liked to have a wife." He looked away, suddenly, as if he had not meant to let that last bit slip out. 

"Then I'll find one for you, and you can take my place as Master of Buckland," suggested Merry lightly. 

At that Frodo rolled his eyes to look dourly at Merry. "No, thank you. On _both_ counts." 

*

When Frodo woke up, it took him a few moments to recall where he was. Gradually, he remembered: Sometime after bantering about common-room gossip and older cousins giving younger cousins the Talk about the way of life, and after a pillow fight that had brought both Sam and Rose into their room scolding them as if they were but teens, and after letting Merry talk him into going to the Green Dragon in spite of Ted Sandyman, and somewhere in the midst of other chatter of no lasting import, Frodo had fallen asleep on the spare bed in Merry's room. It took Frodo another few moments to let his eyes adjust to the dark, and then he realized what had awakened him: Merry was sitting bolt upright in bed, shivering, staring blankly into the night. 

Frodo slipped out of bed and padded over to Merry's side. "Merry," he whispered. Merry did not move. 

"So cold," he moaned, shuddering and gripping his right arm. 

Slowly, carefully, Frodo reached around Merry's back and lay a hand on his arm. It was warm to the touch. 

Roughly Merry shook off Frodo's hand. "I cannot even share a room with my cousin," he panted in a quavering voice. "How am I to share a bed with a wife?" 

Again Frodo slid his arm around Merry, this time wrapping it snugly. "I am sure she would be very understanding," consoled Frodo. 

Merry shook his head, eyes still gazing blindly at nothing. "We don't even understand one another," he whispered, and the words faded into a faint whimper of despair, and despair into silence. 

* * *

  
  



	18. Chapter Seventeen: At the Sign of the Gr...

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Seventeen: At the Sign of the Green Dragon **

On the afternoon that Merry left, he made good on the promise he had extracted from Frodo a few nights before: to stop by the Green Dragon. Frodo set his jaw, reminding himself that he had encountered far worse things in the world than Ted Sandyman. Still, it did not help Frodo's spirits when he walked into the common room only to be greeted by a sneer from the young miller. Frodo expected a rude remark to be forthcoming, but it seemed that Sandyman was more brave behind Frodo's back than to his face; that Frodo had a giant of a cousin at his side might also have tipped the balance toward Sandyman's self-restraint. Frodo simply cast a brief look of disgust and then paid the miller no further heed. Merry wisely led Frodo to sit at at the far end of the boards. 

Over a lunch of stew and bread and ale, Frodo lightly asked, "Would you think ill of me, Merry, if I were to confess that I am having a very difficult time harboring no unkind thoughts toward Ted Sandyman?" 

"On the contrary." Merry sopped a chunk of bread in the thick broth and stuffed it into his mouth. He grinned up at Frodo. "I should take it as a sign that you are healing." 

"Merry." Frodo shook his head, but couldn't wholly suppress a smile. 

"Good stew," said Merry through a mouthful of the same. He followed suit with several more spoons. "Very good." 

"It is," agreed Frodo. "Though Sam was right. It's been entirely too long since I last had the Dragon's good ale." 

"Well, cousin." Another large chunk of bread interrupted Merry for a few moments. "You shall have to make up for lost time." 

"At lunch time?" Frodo laughed, breaking a piece of bread off the small loaf between them. "Tongues are wagging enough, as it is." He dipped the bread into the stew and took a bite. 

"Sam tries to help," said Merry. "He does his best to set your fame to rights." 

Frodo finished chewing before answering. "That, I am afraid, is a losing battle. But bless him for trying," he added, lofting his mug and taking a sip. 

"Indeed," said Merry. He grinnned. "Though I can't blame folk for not being quick to believe him, the way he tells it. Have you read the Book? Sam's part of it, I mean?" 

Frodo shook his head. "No, but I can guess well enough. Whatever he wrote, I am sure that I cannot possibly begin to live up to the hallowed memory of 'Dear Mr. Frodo.'" He and Merry shared a chuckle. "Of course," added Frodo more thoughtfully, "he didn't expect to have the real Mr. Frodo about for anyone to compare to." 

"That's no matter, Frodo," Merry quickly dismissed. "It's how he sees you, whether in memory or in front of his nose, and he'd have written you that way all the same. Why, he even wrote that he saw a light shining in you, if you can believe that." 

"What!" Frodo nearly spilled his drink. Bracing his arms on the boards, he steadied himself, leaning forward toward Merry. "I mean no slight to Sam, the dear fellow, but I really do think he's getting a bit out of hand in this business of likening me to an Elf." 

Merry shrugged, smiling. "It's what he said he saw—and I'm sure he truly thought he did." 

"He also thought a length of Elven rope came to him when he called for it." Frodo settled back on the bench. He allowed himself a few minutes, then, to eat, while the savory stew was still warm. "Light shining in me," he muttered, wiping his mouth with a spare handkerchief and folding it carefully before tucking it back inside his pocket. "I should have liked to have seen that myself; it'd have been a welcome respite from endless shadow." 

Merry watched as Frodo fell silent, tapping a finger on the side of his empty bowl, frowning in dark reverie. "Shadows do pass," Merry wanly offered. 

Frodo glanced up. "They do," he concurred, letting his hand grow still. "But they seem awfully fixed when one is in the thick of them." 

From a back room came the clatter and slosh of dishes being washed. Sunlight filtered in through two small windows on the south end of the common room, though it didn't quite reach where Frodo and Merry sat finishing the last of their lunches. Sandyman had long since gone, as had most of the lunchtime crowd. A server began to wipe down the boards and gather empty plates and bowls and mugs. 

"Perhaps it is a blessing, after all, that I was allowed to come home," mused Frodo. He raised his left hand to signal for another fill of ale. "I am, in the end, simply a Hobbit of the Shire. Sam's children need to see that, I think. They need to see the Ringbearer, not as a grand Elvish legend who was lifted off over the Sea, but as plain old Uncle Frodo, a simple Hobbit who simply happened to have a terrible duty cross his Road and did what needed to be done because it needed to be done. They need to learn what it really means to be a hero: that perhaps the bravest thing any of us can do is to get up and get on with each day as it dawns, and not give up and not give in to the shadows of dangers past." 

Merry contemplated his mug of ale. "I have need of that lesson, myself, many's the day," he said, looking up into Frodo's eyes. 

Soberly Frodo nodded. "And I." He lofted his mug, and he and Merry drank to one another's health. 

*

"Now, remember." Merry sat on the back of his pony, on the road outside the Green Dragon. "You promised me a visit to Brandy Hall, and I shall hold you to your word." 

"Yes, yes, of course," agreed Frodo, nodding vigorously. "Right after Yule. I shall be stopping by Freddy's on the way—you do have the letter?" 

"I do." Merry patted his jacket pocket. 

"Well." Frodo smiled and raised his left hand in farewell. "Until we meet again, have a safe journey and a good Yule." 

Merry waved as he began to ride eastward. "Good Yule to you, too, cousin. May the new year bring a good turn for all of us." 

Frodo watched until Merry and the pony disappeared over the horizon; then he turned back, west, toward Hobbiton, and from there up the Hill to home. 

* * *

  
  



	19. Chapter Eighteen: What Hope

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Eighteen: What Hope **

Frodo sighed, closing Bag End's front door against the endless winter rain. "Post," he said to Sam, handing him all but one letter. 

Sam looked pointedly at the envelope Frodo held, its familiar seal unbroken. "Pippin, again?" 

Frodo nodded. "At least he's troubling to return them," he wryly jested, "even if he can't be bothered to read them." 

Sam said nothing, but a gruff clap of his hand on Frodo's arm was reply enough. 

*

Molly was up at Bag End nearly every day in December to help Rose with the Yuletide baking. Sam was often away, presiding over as many of the season's banquets as one Hobbit could possibly attend; with careful planning, that proved to be very many, indeed. Frodo stayed at home, preferring the quiet retirement of Bag End's study and the contented domestic pleasure of inventing stories for three very attentive youngsters who, in a scant few months, had already grown firmly attached to their Uncle Frodo. 

When she wasn't in the kitchen crafting puddings and cakes with Rose, Molly was in the study with Frodo, talking if he was in a mood to talk, content to sit and think in silence while doing her beadwork if he was busy reading or writing. Frodo had begun to write down the stories he made up for the children, working over his notes and rewriting bits here and there, sometimes ending up with several variations on the same tale. He kept all of them neatly ordered in a plain folio, tucked away on a shelf next to the Mayor's great Red Book. 

Seeing that book, and remembering her long sessions of reading it, at times to the neglect of her work, Molly reflected how sharply her vision had shifted in so short a time. It seemed another lifetime ago, yet it had not even been a year since despair had very nearly claimed her and denied her the days she now enjoyed in all of their simple rhythms of sunlight and— 

A gentle throat-clearing brought Molly back to the moment. She stopped staring at the Red Book on its shelf and returned her attention to the draughts board lying on the floor between herself and Frodo. Sam was out, as usual, on Mayoral business, and Rose had taken the children to her parents' farm for a visit, so Molly and Frodo had ended up sitting in front of the little hearth in the study, taking advantage of the rare solitude to play a few uninterrupted rounds of draughts. 

"Pardon me," murmured Molly to Frodo. "I did not mean to be distracted." Studying the board, she touched her finger to a cherrywood disk and slid it, corner to corner, onto a new square. 

Frodo let his face reveal nothing as he pondered the array of cherrywood and pine disks. He studied the board so long that Molly began to wonder if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open; but then, abruptly, he spoke. "Sam tells me you've read our book," he said, sliding a piece into place. 

Molly lifted her eyes to look at him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the game. "I have," she said. "Several times." 

"Several times." He did look up, then, and even his well-mannered instincts could not hide the astonishment in his eyes. "Quite a long read, even once." 

Molly shrugged. "'Twas needful of more than one pass to properly think about it." 

"I see." Frodo looked to the board, just for a moment, before looking back up at her with a studied indifference that would not have fooled a faunt. "So what did you think?" 

She had not known she'd clenched her teeth until she felt herself sharply sucking air through them. 

Molly sat up, squaring her shoulders, looking into those brown eyes flickering with just a hint of amber light. "I _think,_" she said, "that you were meant to live." 

His jaw dropped. 

Quavering within, outwardly Molly held her ground, waiting. 

Frodo clamped his mouth shut and lowered his eyes, nudging the first draught that caught his eye. "I thought I was meant to die." 

It had been her turn—not that it mattered just now. "But you didn't die," she said. 

"No," he grudgingly admitted. 

Words were burning into her heart, seeking flight, seeking release, and she chose not to deny them. 

"Did you think your life was spared so you could cast it away?" 

His head snapped up, the amber light in his eyes turned into fire. 

She would not look away. She would not. 

With a jerk Frodo scrambled to his feet, scattering the draughts. He stalked over to the doorway of the study. He halted, gripping the curved frame with his left hand, his right hand jammed solidly into the pocket of his breeches. Even through the layers of shirt and waistcoat it was plain that his entire body was taut and angry. 

Molly gulped, her gaze riveted upon Frodo. "I'm—I am sorry, Frodo," she stammered. "I spoke out of place." 

He stood there still, unmoving. She wasn't sure if she wanted him to move. 

A new fear crept into Molly's mind, then, a dreadful possibility that in all her sureness of thinking she had missed considering. With trepidation, she gave that fear trembling voice. 

"Were you dying?" 

There was not the least hesitation in his answer. "No. I was not." His body slackened as he softly added, "That was the trouble." 

Molly could do nothing but stare at his back, watching him as his head sagged and began to pivot slowly, side to side. It was too much to bear. She compelled herself to look to the game pieces, picking them up and putting them in their box. Closing the lid, she set the box on top of the board and looked back up at Frodo. 

Abruptly he turned around, brandishing his right hand with its terrible empty space where a ring finger should have been. Worse than empty: a stump, a scarred, tattered remnant, just enough finger to be an eternal reminder that it was not all it should be. But it was Frodo's eyes, wholly unveiled, to which Molly's gaze was drawn, their agonized, desperate plea echoed by his faltering voice: 

"How do I live a maimed life?" 

Molly kept her eyes on his, never breaking contact as she pushed up to her feet, paced over to where he stood, and slowly raised her left hand to his right, palm meeting palm, and with gentle deliberation curled her fingers between his to clasp his hand, closing the gap. 

"Rose and Sam have invited me to their Yule party," she said. "I expect I shall see you there." With a brief press of his hand, she let go and slipped past him into the hall. 

*

Frodo stared after her, speechless, watching her round the bend and disappear into the front entry. Then, shaking himself, he hastened after her, calling, "Molly! Molly!" 

She was standing by the front door, pinning her cloak. Looking up at Frodo, she waited. 

Frodo gulped and shoved both of his hands into his pockets. "Good afternoon," he said, nodding. 

Molly smiled. "Good afternoon," she softly answered, and turned and opened the door and left. 

* * *

  
  



	20. Chapter Nineteen: Still Round the Corner

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Nineteen: Still Round the Corner **

Standing before the long mirror in his bedroom, Frodo slipped the last button of his waistcoat into place. Holly carved in oak: Molly's handiwork, of course, a Yule gift from Sam, as was the waistcoat of finely woven deep green wool. Lightly Frodo traced the tip of his finger over the button's detail, more easily felt than seen in the dim glow of the lamp with its flame hovering just above the point of extinguishing. 

Muffled sounds of laughter and music seeped through the bedroom door. Frodo smoothed his palms over the front of the waistcoat and surveyed himself, top to toe. He looked much as he would have expected the Frodo of olden days to look at sixty: A quiet, graying gentlehobbit, broadening in body and thickening in limb, his face lined but still bearing the firm contours of youth. But the eyes were far too sober, even for one of maturing middle years; the eyes spoke silently of shadows, and of despair, and of a dull, grim resignation to the prospect of never again finding a way beyond either one. 

Frodo draped a red silk ascot over the back of his neck, looped it at his throat, and tucked the ends into the V of his waistcoat. He gave his unruly curls a last effort at taming with his fingers. His hand slowed, fell still for a moment; then, with a snap, Frodo thrust his hand firmly into his right breech pocket, put out the lamp, and put on a smile as he opened the door. 

*

"Deck now with holly and with evergreen, and with bright red ribbons to cheer; by candle and hearthlight chase out what has been, and hail we the new sun of the turning year..." 

The impromptu quartet of males dissolved into laughter, their Yule song hailed with a smattering of merry applause from about the room. A trio of fiddlers struck up a dance, and all at once the room was alive with whirling, swooping Hobbits. Except for the sofa and chairs, which had been pushed against the walls, most of the furniture had been moved out of the parlor to make way for the crowd of friends and relations of the Gardners and of Frodo. 

Children, several dozen of them, wove in and out and around the adults, scampering under tables and over chairs and running out into the hall and back into the parlor, laughing and clapping and tumbling in what seemed to be a very large, very complicated game of tag. Frodo smiled to himself, letting his mind drift. 

*

_Brandy Hall was a splendid place for a game of hide-and-seek, all the more magnificent for the bounty of Yule decorations behind which one could hide. But Frodo wanted a better place to hide. The cousins were bigger and smarter and he was tired of always being the first one to be found._

_Ah, but here was a door he'd never seen. With a will, Frodo turned the knob and slipped inside, pulling the door swiftly but silently shut._

_A closet? A room, apparently unused. But this wasn't good enough. Turadoc would surely find him readily enough behind the door. Frodo stepped back a pace, then another, feeling for something to hide behind. He bumped against another door._

_Quickly, hastily, he pressed his ear against it, heard nothing, slipped it open and himself around it, to find himself, once his eyes adjusted to the pitch darkness, in a passage._

_Splendid. Turadoc would never in a thousand years find him here._

_"I win!" whispered Frodo to himself, quite pleased. He hastened silently through the passage, taking turn after turn, side passage after side passage, till he was certain that he was well hid. He tucked himself into a little hollow in one wall, settling behind a pile of dusty mathoms, and pulled up his knees and waited._

_He waited for ages._

_The game was surely ended by now. Frodo pushed himself up from the floor, sneezing and coughing and brushing off his breeches. He hadn't thought of that, before. Mum would have a fit if he'd gone and ruined his new Yule clothes. He'd stop by a washroom, first, before finding Turadoc and showing him and all the cousins that little Frodo was quite able to keep up with the big lads, after all._

_Now, to find his way back to the party before anyone found him._

_Frodo ran as fast as he could in the dark, letting one hand skim lightly along the wall. He turned this way, and that, and that, and—or was it that way he'd come—or—_

_Setting his jaw, Frodo ran on. And on. And on._

_He was lost._

_Terror snaked a tight band around his stomach, squeezing, squeezing. He pushed against it with the deepest breath he could manage and let it out in a howl._

_"Da-a-ad! Da-a-a-ad!"_

_He sobbed and wailed and screamed for his father until his voice gave way; and still he remained alone, in the dark, lost, beyond the reach of love and comfort._

_Frodo slumped against the wall and drew his knees to his chest, burying his face in his arms._

_Another age of the world passed, then:_

_"Frodo? Frodo-lad?"_

_Frodo's head snapped up. "Dad?" he choked out. His voice was rough. He breathed in a great breath and pushed it out as forcefully as he could: "Dad! Dad! Over here! Dad!"_

_And then he felt himself being scooped into tender strong arms and he heard himself burst anew into weeping and he felt his father's arms try to still the quavering that had suddenly taken hold of his body from top to toe._

_ "Hush, hush, my lad," he heard Dad murmur into his ear. "All's well that ends better." Frodo nodded, and put forth all of his will to rein in his sobs till they were reduced to an occasional, shuddering, gulping gasp of air. He could feel his father's heart pounding where his cheek was pressed snugly against his father's chest._

_A loud, hollow growl made both of them jump._

_Frodo could feel the quiet chuckle rumbling through his father's chest. "Let's be on our way to the kitchen, my lad, and see if we can find a cure for that," said Dad, hugging Frodo tightly as he began to carry him back through the maze of corridors. Frodo clung to him, and he didn't even care if Turadoc and the rest of the cousins might see. And in the kitchen, by the light of a lone candle late in the night, Frodo sat secure in his father's lap while he devoured plum pudding and mushroom pasties and washed it all down in the warmth of mulled cider._

_That had been in the days when he knew only love and family and home, and words like "more than half a Brandybuck" he had never so much as heard, let alone understood what they insinuated, and rings were merely pretty things that bound two hearts to only good—_

*

"Hullo, Frodo!" Frodo started, finding himself wrapped in a quick but fond embrace from his cousin Daisy Boffin. "It is good to see you home, again." Her bobbed hair fluffed around her radiant face like a cloud of white cotton. When had it—? 

Frodo forced himself to smile. "Yes. Home," he said, and hoped it was convincing. 

"Frodo!" 

"Hullo, Milo." Frodo turned his smile to the Hobbit who had clapped him on the back. "I see your lads are providing the music for the evening." 

"Oh, yes," Daisy breathlessly interjected. "Why, the Burrows brothers are famed in all the country round for their fiddling. 'Twould hardly be a party without them!" 

Milo beamed. "I thank you, Daisy, for your kind words. I am indeed proud of the lads, I am—if they can still be called lads, grown as they are, and the youngest but two years from his coming of age." 

"Oh, heavens above, they _do_ grow so quickly, Milo, do they not?" Daisy clapped a hand to her heart. "It seems hardly the blink of an eye since Mosco was toddling about in nappies, and now look at him, married and grown and with a lad of his own." 

"Yes. Yes," answered Milo, wistfully dabbing where one might possibly have imagined a tear to be welling, if one imagined well. "And Moro's to be wed this spring, and even Minto's got his eye on the Banks lass, though I've made it quite plain to him that I shan't permit so much as the setting of a date till he's reached the age. Young love can be _such_ a bother for the elders." 

"Oh, I _know,_" agreed Daisy with an emphatic wave of her hand. "Isn't it just the way..." 

Giving a slight nod, Frodo quietly slipped away, leaving the two to their talk of young love and the passing years. He looked around the room at all the cheer-filled faces, laughing and chattering and eating and drinking. He drifted toward the long serving table at the side of the room, a table laden with Yule breads and cakes and candies and a huge bowl of wine punch with a cluster of filled cups arranged next to it. He briefly, without any real enthusiasm, considered eating or drinking. He wondered where his appetite had fled. 

*

_"Heavens above, Frodo, my lad! Leave a few crumbs for the guests!"_

_Frodo rolled his eyes up to grin at Bilbo. His mouth was too full of rum cake to allow the grin to reach his mouth, but by the look of paternal exasperation on Bilbo's face Frodo could see that the grin had fared well enough with only his eyes in its service._

_Bilbo shook his head, laughed, clapped a hand on Frodo's shoulder. He never could stay cross with Frodo for very long._

_Frodo watched while Bilbo mingled with assorted Bagginses and Boffins and Bolgers and sundry other relations near and distant. Most of them, thought Frodo, came only because they never could turn down a free meal, but everyone seemed to be having a pleasant enough time. He scooped a handful of dried apples and currants from the cut glass serving dish and tipped his head back, letting the bits of fruit cascade into his waiting mouth._

_Good. Bilbo hadn't seen, that time._

_Frodo smiled to himself, tapping his foot in time to the flutes and fiddles that Bilbo had hired for the occasion. The parlor glittered with golden ribbons and beads and baubles, the light of a hundred candles sparkling in hundreds of tiny crystal snowflakes that dangled from the ceiling. The scent of pine and the aroma of simmering spices from far countries filled Frodo's senses, made him giddy in a drowsy-dizzy-tingly pleasant sort of way. Then a sweet lass with a sprig of mistletoe bound to her bouncing brown curls stepped up to him, and what could he do but dance..._

*

Frodo watched Sam as he laughed merrily with his brother-in-law Tom Cotton. _Dear Sam._ Frodo smiled fondly to himself, and redoubled his efforts to maintain an appearance of cheer. 

Sam happened to look up, then, and his eyes met Frodo's. 

With great effort Frodo kept his face locked in its blithe mask. _Sam's not fooled,_ was his first, dreadful realization. _He knows what I'm doing._

The second: _He's doing it, too._

Frodo felt his knees buckle. He bumped against the serving table. Stumbling, grasping, he thrust out an awkward arm and felt it collide with several cups. He spun about to catch them, but too late. 

"Blast," he muttered, staring forlornly at the red wine punch seeping irretrievably into the white cloth covering the table. 

"They're not all spilt," murmured a familiar voice at his side. Frodo looked past the spill, and saw that there were, indeed, two cups still standing. 

"Thank you, Molly," he said, taking one and dashing its contents down in a single gulp. The wine sent a thread of warmth spiraling through his chest. 

Molly picked up the other cup. There was no mistaking the amusement in her eyes as she held the cup out to him. 

"Oh. No, thank you," stammered Frodo, flustered. "Thank you. I'm quite all right, now." 

She said nothing, but her eyes shone as she sipped from the cup. The fiddles of the Burrows brothers had quickened into a rollicking two-step, and Frodo was dimly aware of the laughing dancers weaving and whirling past him. 

Molly glanced over at the dancers, then back at Frodo. "Do you dance?" she asked, setting down her cup. 

Frodo blinked, and shrank back, just a bit. "I—I used to. Before." 

She smiled, holding out her hand. "Show me. Please?" 

He shook his head. "That was before," he repeated in a small voice. 

Her smile softened. "I didn't know you before," she said, and waited. 

He looked back at her in slowly dawning amazement. Unable to think of a counter-argument, Frodo finally nodded, smiling slightly as he raised his left hand to take Molly's right. "We'll have to adapt a bit," he said. 

"I know," she said, planting her left hand on his right shoulder. Kicking up her heels, she pulled him into the dance. 

*

_...and he danced, and he danced, till he was flushed with the joy of the tide, cinnamon and crystal and soft flesh and a chorus of mirth all blending into a drink more heady than the homestilled "likker" the gardener's youngest son had once swiped from his Dad to share with Frodo in the strictest confidence. And he kissed the lass, whose name he could not recall, or was it that she kissed him; but it was Yule, and it mattered not who kissed whom, as long as certain bounds of propriety were held in respect._

*

"You dance well," said Molly. 

Frodo nodded. "Thank you," he managed to gasp. The pace was rather more lively than he'd grown accustomed to. "I thought I'd forgot how." 

*

_And Frodo laughed, and looked to Bilbo, who was quite caught up in a merry exchange with a cluster of gentlehobbits. And Frodo looked on with wonder, marveling at the centenarian's vigor, hale and youthful, untouchable, it seemed, by time's vicissitudes—_

*

_Accept the changes, Frodo, my lad._

Frodo jumped. He looked about, half expecting— 

"What is it?" asked Molly, her voice a soothing balm smoothing the frayed edges of his nerves. 

Frodo shook his head. "Nothing," he said, a rueful smirk fleeting upon his face before he settled back into a semblance of ease. 

"Come along." Molly led him away from the dance floor to the serving table. "You've had scarcely two bites the whole evening," she said, handing him a plate. 

"I wasn't hungry," said Frodo, shrugging, but taking the plate, all the same. 

*

_Frodo had kept up Bilbo's tradition of hosting a party every Yule at Bag End. On this particular Yule, he was feeling especially thoughtful as he looked about the parlor: Sam was, as Sam was wont to do, busying himself seeing to it that everyone had a full plate and a full cup. Frodo wished Sam would quit fussing over the guests and recall that on this night he, himself, was also a guest. But that was Sam, and Frodo was sure he'd never change. Frodo shifted his glance and saw how Rose Cotton looked at Sam. He'd have to do something about that, see if he could tear Sam away from serving long enough to enjoy a dance or two with Rose. And, looking past Rose, Frodo saw how Berylla Chubb looked at him, when she'd thought he wasn't looking, and how she quickly averted her eyes when she saw he was._

_A great longing came over him, then, to stop dreaming of adventure and to settle into the comforts of hearth and home. Bilbo was surely no longer anywhere Frodo could follow, however much Frodo still wished to believe otherwise. For what, then, did he tarry? He would be turning fifty in the coming year; high time to put away the fancies of youth and look to raising a family._

_So resolved, he had asked Berylla Chubb for the honor of a dance. And he had meant to begin courting her, after Yule; and he had, indeed, paid call a few times, but the old restlessness had reasserted itself with new strength, and he found himself wandering again, wondering at himself, not quite able to bring himself to be done with dreams of there and back again._

_And then, early in the spring, Gandalf had returned to Bag End, bearing news..._

*

Deep in the night, Frodo stood outside of Bag End, gazing westward. All of the guests, save Molly, had long since gone home. The children had fallen asleep, one by one, Frodo-lad being the most stubborn in his determination to keep the New Year's vigil; but he, too, had at last faded, leaning against his father's shoulder, and his father had soon followed suit. Molly and Rose had been engrossed in soft, earnest conversation, and Frodo had slipped away, wrapping himself snugly in the thin and tattered cloak that had been Bilbo's. 

_It will not be the same. I am not the same._

There was no real going back. He had known it, long ago. He had hoped he could forget. He had hoped. 

He looked over the Shire. He looked to the West. He saw only night. 

He had wanted to come back. He reminded himself of that. Grace, he had called it. An extraordinary, unexpected, unmerited favor: for a mortal to be granted not only passage but return. But return to what? What grace was to be found in this endless exile? 

_All that I had. All that I might have had._

The blue-black sky of night began to fade to sapphire. 

_I leave..._

Frodo heard the front door click open, then shut. 

"All the others have fallen asleep." The words were spoken in a hush. "We, alone, remain to hail the turning of the year." 

Frodo shook his head, still facing the west. "There is no turning for me, Molly. I am bound, forever bound, to that accursed Ring; forever ruled, even in its demise, by its power." 

A space of silence. Then, softly: "No taste of food, no feel of water, no sound of wind, no memory of tree or grass or flower—do you truly say that none of these have been restored to you with the unmaking of the Ring?" 

He said nothing. 

Molly's voice pressed on, gentle as spring rain, tenacious as the rooted dandelion. "The Ring is gone, Frodo. Its power is no more, save in memory. All that remains are scars, scars and shadows, marking where once it passed." 

Frodo stiffened. He looked fixedly to the fading west. "You never bore the Ring. You know not of what you speak." 

He heard a sharp intake of breath. Then he heard nothing. She was so quiet, he might have thought she had left him, but he sensed she remained standing not far behind him. 

"No, Frodo," he at last heard her sigh. "I never did bear the Ring." 

He turned sharply, looking intently into her eyes: There was sorrow, and pain, and age far beyond her years. 

He closed his eyes. 

A light touch on his arm brought him back. He lifted his head, his eyes now resting upon two silver wine goblets that flickered with a last glint of light before Eärendil's star faded into the first light of dawn. 

"We cannot unspill what has been spilt," Molly said, holding out to him one of the goblets. "Only drink from the cups that are left to us—leastways if we're not fool enough to be spilling those, as well, in our grief for the ones we can't take back." 

As the sun slipped above the horizon to flood the morning sky, the silver cup was transfigured with golden light. Frodo felt a smile emerging, a true smile: a warmth radiating from some long-neglected ember still sheltered deep within, at last breaking forth upon his face. He started to reach, by habit, with his left hand, but halted and let it fall back to his side. 

From deep within his pocket he drew forth his right hand. With his right hand, maimed, he reached for the cup and took firm hold. "To the turning of the year," said Frodo, drinking deeply. The light of the sun shone richly in Molly's eyes as she joined his wish with her own. 

* * *

**END OF PART TWO**

* * *

  
  



	21. Chapter Twenty: So I Press On

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** PART THREE: SPRING **

** Chapter Twenty: So I Press On **

Frodo knocked at the door of the small Hobbit hole. It was but a moment before Molly answered, as if he had been expected. 

"I'm leaving for Buckland, now," he said to her. "I expect to be gone a fortnight, perhaps a little longer. I've an awful lot of catching up to do." 

Molly smiled gently. "I understand." 

"I'll stop by, just as soon as I am back." 

"And I shall look forward to seeing you, and to hearing all about your visit." She reached up suddenly and tugged the hem of Frodo's hood so it better sheltered his face. "Now go, before you drown altogether." 

Frodo laughed. "I'll be drenched, either way, whether I stand here or ride away." 

"Well, if you're going to stand here, then you needn't stand outside getting drenched." 

He shifted slightly, as if to step through the doorway. 

_But if I come inside, I'll never leave._

Resolutely he drew away from the door. "I'd best be going on my way." 

"As I was saying." Molly raised one eyebrow. 

"Yes, Miss Piper." His voice was contrite, but there was a twinkle in his eye. 

With an effort Molly held back a smile. "Good day, Frodo." 

Frodo nodded. "Good day, Molly," he said. He walked back to his pony and waved a last farewell to Molly as he rode eastward, back toward Hobbiton and Bywater and thence on the road to Buckland. 

*

A day of riding, a night at an inn, and another half-day's ride brought him to Budgeford in Bridgefields, in the Eastfarthing, right on the banks of The Water. Frodo slipped off the pony and led it through the gate to the front door of the Bolger home. He gave the bell a ring. 

Whatever he'd expected when the door opened, it wasn't this. The shock on Fredegar's face was, he knew, mirrored on his own. 

Frodo forced himself to smile. "Freddy," he said. 

He remembered how gaunt Fredegar had got, locked away long weeks by Sharkey's men. He had not expected that he would still be thin, nor that he would be so aged beyond his years. 

"Hullo, Frodo," said Freddy, echoing Frodo's smile. "It's awfully good to see you, again." 

Then again, Freddy likely hadn't expected Frodo to have put on thirty years in a seven-year absence. 

"Likewise," said Frodo. 

And suddenly Freddy was all cheer. 

"Well, come in! Come in! I say, Frodo, but it's been a long time, and we have a lot of catching up to do! I do believe I've got some excellent leaf to fill your pipe, and from the smell of it, Estella's got some lovely biscuits baking for tea, and it's been an awfully long while since last I talked to Sam, and I should like to know how he's getting on, he and his family..." 

*

Freddy's sister, Estella, poured the tea and served the biscuits. After a quick exchange of pleasantries, she made excuse and retreated from the parlor, leaving her brother and Frodo to their reunion. 

Frodo wondered at how he had once enjoyed an easy cameraderie with the Hobbit who now sat across from him fidgeting with his tea cup and clearing his throat time and again until Frodo wished he had a cough lozenge to offer the fellow. 

"Well, Frodo." Freddy gave a little laugh. "I never sought adventure, but it found me anyway." 

"Hm." Frodo lifted his tea cup to his lips, sipped, and held the cup aloft as he replied, "I assure you, the adventure that found me wasn't quite what I should have wished for, either." 

He could see Freddy's eyes fix upon the gap in the hand that held the cup. There was another long and awkward silence. Frodo filled it with tea and biscuits. Freddy had been right: The biscuits _were_ awfully good. 

Not that Freddy had any way of knowing, seemingly. He turned a biscuit round and round in his fingertips, agitating it slowly into a sprinkling of crumbs upon the plate. 

"You asked about Sam and the children." 

Freddy started, dropping the biscuit. Quickly he summoned forth a bright smile. "Why—yes. Yes. How is the old fellow?" 

"Very well, thank you. He and Rose are doing quite well. They've four children, as you may know; all are thriving, and seem to have taken to me as their Uncle Frodo." 

"Ah. Very good. Very good." 

The biscuit was back in his fingers, spinning round and round and round. 

Frodo distracted himself with another cup of tea. 

"A pity you didn't have time to say goodbye before you left. I should have liked to have seen you one more time, knowing it was the last time I might expect ever to see you." 

The confounded biscuit was going to drive him mad. 

"I suppose," Freddy went on, wholly occupied with the crumbling biscuit, "I didn't have as much claim to it as your fellow Travellers, but I should think that my part in your adventure counted for something." 

With great effort Frodo held back a sigh and strove to keep his voice light. "If I'd said goodbye to everyone I ought, I should never have left." 

The biscuit stopped twirling. 

"No," Fredegar softly agreed. "I suppose you shouldn't." 

*

He'd meant to stay longer, but after only two days, Frodo could bear no more. So much had changed. He wished, suddenly, he'd been in the Shire all along, that he might have seen first hand, perhaps even averted, whatever had caused the transformation of Fredegar into the unfamiliar creature he barely recognized as the ghost of an old friend. A keen sense of emptiness stabbed through Frodo, an emptiness that even the best conversation could not have filled. All the conversations in the Shire could not restore the gap in his memory and his life. 

_Be grateful it was only seven years._ Frodo planted his hands on his pony's back and prepared to hoist himself up. _By rights, it should have been the rest of your life._

"Frodo!" 

He turned. Estella ran up to him, cloak flapping behind her. 

Frodo pulled away from the pony. He waited until Estella had caught her breath before he gently inquired, "Yes?" 

Estella frowned. She glanced about, then glanced down at his hand. She looked back up into his eyes. "Was it hard?" 

A dismissive gloss rose to his lips, but instead, Frodo heard himself saying, "It was horrible. Horrible to live through, worse to live after. I wished at times I'd died—but I don't feel that way now," he quickly added, seeing her eyes grow round. "I'm glad, now, to be here. But it's still hard, at times." 

Estella nodded. "You're very brave," she said, all in a rush. "Not just for all you did, back then, but for telling the truth, just now, instead of all this confounded false cheer. It's driving me mad, watching Fredegar waste to skin and bones, and Merry—" She stopped, abruptly, and went very red. 

_She loves him,_ Frodo realized. _The silly fool: He's already got the love of a woman who isn't fooled and doesn't care, because she does care._

Estella must have seen in his face that he understood, because the blush diminished and she smiled shyly. "I can't ever begin to understand, I am sure," she said, "but I can at least listen, if he would but give me the opportunity." 

Frodo smiled and quickly pressed her hand. "I'll do my best," he said. "I'll have a talk with Merry, and see if I can at least get him to talk to you." 

"I should appreciate that. Thank you." Then, before he could say anything, Estella quickly stood on her toes and brushed his cheek with a little kiss, and it was Frodo's turn to blush. 

* * *

  
  



	22. Chapter Twentyone: That I May See

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Twenty-one: That I May See **

Frodo made it to Brandy Hall in time for supper. Merry was waiting on the step of the front door, having a smoke during a respite from the rain. 

Merry grinned and lofted his pipe in greeting. "Frodo!" 

Instead of answering, "Hullo, Merry, it's good to be here," or such like, Frodo found himself hailing his cousin with: 

"Estella loves you, you old ass." 

Merry arched his eyebrows. "She told you this?" 

"She didn't have to. All she had to do was mention your name and she was all lit up like Brandy Hall at Yuletide." 

"Ah." 

"Talk to her, Merry. Give her a chance." 

"We'll see." 

"Don't be an ass." 

"Frodo, you know—" 

"Yes, and so does she!" snapped Frodo. "She lives with it every day. Have you seen Freddy of late?" 

Merry's expression grew grim. 

"Right, then. He's not fooling anybody, and you're not fooling anybody, any more than I was ever fooling anybody. She's not a fool, Merry. She's quite bright—and she does care. Very much." Frodo drew a sharp breath, and sighed. "She may not ever truly understand," he quietly went on. "Nobody really can, can they? But she can listen. And she will listen. I am sure of it." 

Slowly Merry nodded, looking like he was holding back tears. "We'll see," he said again. "No. Really. I _will_ see. I'll write her a letter this very evening, and send it with tomorrow's first post." 

Frodo smiled. "She'll be very pleased, I am sure." 

"So will my father, if anything comes of it." 

"Ah. Speaking of Uncle Saradoc, how is he? May I see him?" 

"Doing fairly well today." Merry stepped inside, ushering Frodo over the threshold. "Come along, then, cousin. He shall be very glad, indeed, to see you looking so well—to see you at all, but especially looking so well; for you _are_ looking well. Do you know that? Very well, indeed." 

Frodo felt another smile warm his face. "Thank you. I am feeling very well, indeed." 

*

Like falling asleep again, he had called it, the return to the ordinary life of the Shire; but immersed once again in the babble and bustle of Brandy Hall, Frodo felt as if he were only now beginning to awaken from an Elvish dream. For most of his life things high and rare had filled his vision, been all his yearning, and the sublime singing of the Elves had made Shire voices sound drab, indeed. 

But now it seemed to Frodo that he could not get enough of the music of those ordinary voices: idle chatter, a baby's whimper, a father's soothing murmur; laughter, shouting, yawning, bickering, sighing, even singing. Not only the sublime silver of the skilled but even the voices of passable brass and plain pottery now enraptured Frodo and filled him with a sense of recovering a treasure he had once cast away without fully appreciating its worth. 

*

By the time Frodo left Brandy Hall, Merry had written to Estella and Estella had written back, and after several more exchanges of letters Merry had set out, the day before Frodo's departure, to pay call to Estella. 

"Invite me to the wedding," Frodo had said, embracing Merry. 

"I shall, if it ever comes to it." 

"It shall. I can see it in your eyes." 

"Then I'd better draw my cap a little closer. It wouldn't do to give it away to Estella the minute I knock at the door." 

"Nonsense. It would do perfectly. You've waited long enough as it is." 

"So have you." 

"Off with you, then." 

Merry was laughing as he rode away. 

*

Frodo was in a pensive mood as he rode back west through the Shire. It was fortunate that Sam's pony seemed to know the way, because Frodo, preoccupied as he was, scarcely served as a fit guide. When day faded into night, Frodo stopped at the nearest inn, arranged for a room, and seated himself at a table in the corner of the common room for a light dinner and a strong pint. 

He was deep in his thoughts, and deep in his cups, when he heard someone settle in next to him. He glanced over, and saw that it was Pippin. They drank together in silence. 

Several pints later, Pippin stirred. 

"Heroes aren't what we thought they were," he murmured to the far wall. 

"Hm." Frodo felt his mouth twist. "Hobbits aren't what I thought we were." 

Pippin nodded, smiling faintly. 

The rest of the evening passed without conversation, until, late, Pippin pushed himself up from the table. "To your health, cousin," he said, swaying and staggering out of the common room. 

When Frodo went to pay the bill next morning, he found it had already been settled. 

* * *

  
  



	23. Chapter Twentytwo: My Appointed Road

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Twenty-two: My Appointed Road **

Molly sat with Frodo at the kitchen table in Bag End. It was another day in which Sam and Rose and the children had gone to the Cotton farm, leaving Molly and Frodo to sit in peace, talking quietly and working on their respective tasks while the winter rains washed against the shuttered windows. 

Several times since his return from Buckland, Molly had invited Frodo to sit at her own kitchen table for tea and chat while she worked on her buttons and beads and he worked on whatever he was writing in that new green book of his. But he seemed strangely shy about entering her home. "People will talk," he said, whenever she brought up the matter, as if the talebearers of Hobbiton had not already talked and talked about her until Spinster Piper had become more a figure of legend than a neighbor down the road. 

Of course, dear Frodo likely had his head too buried in his books to take note of the talk about town. 

A light _tap, tap, tap_ of metal against glass made Molly look up. 

She bit her lip. He was perfectly old enough to know better— 

Frodo happened to look up, then. He caught her eye and, smiling sheepishly, stopped tapping the pen's nib against the ink bottle. 

"Sorry." He dipped the nib into the ink and returned to writing. 

Molly returned to the bead she was carving, but it wasn't long before the scratch of pen over paper again ceased. 

She looked up. Frodo was staring at the kitchen window, the end of the pen clenched in his teeth. 

"My life was at an end," he murmured. "My part in the story was done." He took the pen out of his teeth and looked deeply into Molly's eyes. "I have never been more certain of anything. And I have never been more wrong." 

Molly smiled gently. "You look quite alive to me," she said. 

"You'd think I'd have seen it. I mean, till now all I've seen is that I was wounded, wounded, I'll never be as I was before. I thought I was doomed. But now all I can see is that I was _spared_." 

Molly nodded. 

"I was _spared_, Molly! Time and again I was spared! The knife at Weathertop, the sting of the spider, the destruction of Mordor—I lived, countless times I _lived_ when time and again I came _that_ close to death." 

Frodo waved his pen about, punctuating his words. 

"That ought to have told me something, don't you think? It's as if something, or someone, has been shouting, 'Frodo Baggins, you were meant to _live!_' and till now I've been stone deaf to it." 

Molly couldn't help but smile.

"I was meant to _live,_ Molly! To what end, I don't know, but I do know it, as surely as I have ever known anything in my life. I was _meant_ to _live_." 

A few drops of ink landed on the bodice of her dress, and Molly bit back a few words that good lasses weren't supposed to know, but knew, all the same. It was one of her favorite dresses, and she hadn't many, after all. 

Frodo seemed to have come to the very same realization, for he suddenly fell silent, his eyes falling upon the ink-splattered bodice, and just as suddenly he burst out, "Oh! Molly! I _am_ sorry! I shall buy you another dress, as fine as you like." 

Then, abruptly, they both became conscious of where his eyes were fixed. Frodo's face flushed terribly red, and he dropped his gaze. Immediately he was once again intent upon his writing. 

Molly fanned away the heat in her own face and took up her beadwork. She finished the bead she'd been working on, and began another. 

"Don't misunderstand me." Frodo put down his pen and looked up at Molly. "I am dreading March. With everything that is in me, I wish I could flee, escape, not have to face it. But even in the Elvenhome I had to face it—yet somehow I _was_ able to face it, endure it. I have to find that spark of endurance again. I have to remember that the shadows do pass, and not let them daunt me. If I can do that..." 

Molly leaned across the table and clasped his hand. "You will," she said, her eyes never leaving his. 

*

March came in, unseasonably mild. Frodo hoped it would remain that way. 

"Well, Frodo," said Sam one evening in the study. "It's all settled. Tom Cotton'll do duty for me for a few days, so I'll have the thirteenth to spend with you, longer if you need it." 

Frodo cradled his pipe in his fingers, thinking how much it looked like a pipe Bilbo used to especially favor. "That's awfully kind of you, Sam," he said. 

Sam grunted. 

"You don't have to, you know." 

"I know." 

"I mean, I _am_ very glad that you wish to help me, if, indeed, anything can help me, but I shouldn't wish for you to burden your—" 

"_Confound it, Frodo!_" 

The pipe clattered upon the floor at Frodo's feet. Frodo looked up, his jaw hanging. 

"Burden this and burden that!" Sam glared at him, his face red. "Enough! The only burden you ever put on me was the burden of having to live everything for you that you thought you couldn't have for yourself, and I can't bear it no more!" 

Frodo could not speak. He gaped, motionless save for a slight tremor in his right hand. 

"Frodo." Tears glittered in Sam's eyes. "I can't live your story for you. I can't. I've got my own story to live, and for seven long years I've been trying to live for both of us, and it's tearing me in two. Do you truly wish not to burden me, Frodo?" 

Frodo gulped. "Truly, Sam," he answered, almost whispering. 

"Then take back your life. Live your own story, even if you can't write it quite the way you might've wrote it before. And let me do what I can to help you live it, through dark days and light—leastways till such time as you might find some other, better keeper." 

Frodo let out a little laugh, which released a few tears that had been brimming. "And did you have in mind another, better keeper for me?" he asked, wiping the tears away. 

A gleam lit Sam's eye. "Well, now as you mention it—" He leaped from his chair and began rummaging through his desk. 

"Here." 

Just in time Frodo caught a small, heavy bag that made a dense _clink_ as it landed in his cupped hands. 

"Might come in useful," Sam winked, "if you should take a mind to getting wed." 

"Sam!" Frodo felt the heat flood his face. 

"I'm just saying." 

"Indeed." 

Sam shrugged. "Can't believe you haven't spoken by now." 

"Really, Sam." Frodo looked away, hefting the bag of coins. He knew it was useless to attempt to refuse the gift. "Whatever makes you think—" 

"You being redder than the roses in June, for one." 

Frodo cast about, shaking his head. "I—really, Sam—I mean, we _are_ friends, _yes,_ but, well." He cleared his throat and shoved his free hand into his pocket. "See here, Sam. I really don't think that's what she wants—what you were saying, I mean, not being friends—what I _mean_ to say is that Molly is quite happy as she is, and I—it really would not be right for me to, well—" 

Sam's hand on his shoulder silenced him. 

"To be happy?" 

Frodo said nothing. 

"Frodo." Sam's voice was tender. "You've borne your share of shadows, and then some. Don't you think maybe you're due for a little sunlight?" 

Frodo sighed, closing his eyes. "I don't know Sam," he admitted. "I don't know." He looked up at Sam. "I suppose I've so got in the habit of writing myself a bitter end, I can't see any other, even when the story begs to be followed to a better." 

"Ah, Frodo." In a heartbeat Sam's arms were around him. "You just wait and see. Someday you'll look back and laugh to think you saw naught but sorrow when bright blessed joy was just a-waiting round the bend. You wait and see if it ain't so." 

Frodo smiled against Sam's broad shoulder. "I hope so," he said. 

"Hope's a good start," Sam replied. 

* * *

  
  



	24. Chapter Twentythree: Frodo's Doom

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Twenty-three: Frodo's Doom **

Spring was coming. 

Frodo stood on the front porch, waiting for the sunrise. But a few more days, and it would be the thirteenth of March. But a few more days, and the long-ago days of shadow and dread would be made present once more. 

And still he looked to the east, not in dread of shadow but in anticipation of light. 

Spring was coming. 

He was remembering, now, more and more often, that in those days there had been not only shadows but light, not only dark dreams but bright awakenings. In the beginning he had been overwhelmed not by a sense of woundedness but by the simple gratitude to have been spared when all along he had expected to have been sacrificed. 

_Yes, Sam, I am otherwise all right._

He'd forgot that he'd said that. And that he had laughed. Laughed. And been glad, very glad, simply to have awakened and found himself alive. Had anyone told him in that moment that survival would bear with it a price of scarring, he would have laughed again and said it mattered not: He was _alive_. 

How had Sam put it? Frodo looked again to the slip of paper he'd taken to carrying always in his right breech pocket. "We awakened every day in hope and peace," he softly read. And indeed they had. He lifted his eyes and looked to the rising sun. 

Winter yet had storms to be endured, but spring was coming. 

*

_ All that I had, and might have had, I leave to you, Sam. _

"Uncle Frodo! Uncle Frodo!" 

_ All that I have, and might yet have... _

"Can we have a story, Uncle Frodo?" 

_ All that might yet be... _

"Why, of course you may have a story! Now, let me see: Once upon a time there was a fellow who could not see that he would someday have a happily ever after..." 

_ For these I will endure. _

*

March thirteenth dawned, but he could not see the sun. 

Shadows. 

Only shadows. 

They had no power. 

They would pass. 

In this lay his hope. 

Frodo closed his eyes, clinging tightly to that hope. 

*

_ It was dark. He was afraid. _

_ Light had been so very long ago... _

_ He could not remember. _

_ He was afraid. _

*

"Sam?" 

"I'm here." 

They were only shadows. 

They would abate. 

Frodo felt Sam's hand wrap snugly around his. 

Sam would abide. The shadows would pass. 

*

_ Well, well, look what we got here. _

_ Looks Elvish to me, but undersized. _

_ This one's for the Dark Tower. _

_ Undersized. _

_ For the Dark Tower. _

_ Elvish. _

_ You just wait. The Dark Tower. _

*

"Frodo, Frodo, hush, hush." 

Rocking, rocking... 

He knew those arms. 

"Hush, Frodo, hush. It's all right now, it's all right, it is, it is." 

Arms... 

"Hush..." 

Sam. 

"Sam?" 

"Yes, Mr. Frodo, yes, it's your Sam." 

Sam. 

Through clouded eyes he could see, dimly. 

"Sam." 

"Yes, Mr. Frodo." 

"Don't leave me." 

"I won't ever." 

He closed his eyes. 

*

_ I will not say the day is done... _

_ Sam, I am glad you are with me. Here at the end of all things. _

_ You never would give up. _

_ All is ruin. _

_ And still you are Sam... _

*

"Sam. Why don't you go to bed. Get some sleep." 

"I'm all right." 

"Sam." 

"I said I wouldn't leave you, Frodo, and I meant it." 

"I know, Sam. And I am grateful, very grateful. You cannot know how much it means—how much _you_ mean to me. But I do believe the worst of it has passed; I shall be all right, now." 

"If you are sure." 

"I am sure, as I am sure that your bed will offer you a far better sleep than that chair." 

"Well...if you are sure." 

"I shall be all right, Sam." 

"All right. Good night, Frodo." 

"Good night, Sam. I shall see you in the morning." 

*

_ I will not say the day is done... _

*

Shadows. 

Only shadows. 

They had no power. 

They would pass. 

*

_ To the pass, Sam! To the pass, and we're free! _

_ Free... _

_ Pain. Darkness. The roaring of the sea, far away... _

_ Almost free. Forever bound. _

*

Shadows. 

*

_ ...only Elves can escape...away, away out of Middle-earth, far away over the Sea...if even that is wide enough to keep the Shadow out... _

*

Only shadows. 

*

_ Drowning in darkness, he reached out, searching for a hold. _

_ Help. _

_ Please. Help. _

_ I can't go on. _

_ Please. _

_ I want to stay. _

_ I want to live. _

_ A great swelling roar, a crash, a flood... _

_ YOU DON'T DESERVE TO LIVE! YOU CLAIMED THE RING! _

_ You've no hope! _

_ No hope. No hope. No hope. _

_ Drowning in a sea of accusing voices, every voice his own. _

*

He gasped for air, and found himself sitting up, trembling, in his bed. Night was deep and Bag End was silent. 

_ Be assured that Bilbo took so little hurt from the Ring because he gave it up in the end, of his own accord. _

Frodo sank despondently back against his pillow. Hot tears trickled down the sides of his face. 

"I'm sorry, Sam." Hoarse, dry, his voice conceded the battle. "You cannot come between me and this doom." 

Sam's wounded eyes filled his vision, but the vision was swept away by the roar of the sea... 

_...a white ship bobbed upon the dark gray waters...shining, beckoning, as the last rays of sunlight glanced off before sinking, sinking into the sea...glowing softly in the twilight, the ship awaited..._

But no ship lay waiting. None would, Frodo knew, until at last came Sam's time to sail. 

If Sam still wished to sail. 

If Frodo would still be there to accompany him. 

The old terror seized him with sudden force: _You will not have long life._

Tremors wracked his whole body, and Frodo broke down, weeping bitterly in great heaving sobs. 

_I have been deceiving myself. This can never again be home to me; I ought never to have returned. I am wounded, ruined, a broken thing doomed to wander ever in shadow and never to find rest—_

_Mortal child._

It came unbidden, a whisper deep in his heart. 

Frodo grew still, and lifted his head. 

_That Light which sustained you on your Quest remains with you still. Here is where you belong, mortal child._

The words, spoken with infinite tenderness, sank deep into his soul. 

A deep and abiding peace took hold and would not let go. New tears welled up and spilled over, streaming down Frodo's face. 

"Here is where I belong," he whispered, and at last knew it with all his heart. 

* * *

  
  



	25. Chapter Twentyfour: Safe Harbor

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Twenty-four: Safe Harbor **

Concern for Frodo awoke Sam before dawn. Taking care not to waken Rose, Sam slid out of bed and crept down the dark hall to Frodo's room. Quietly he tapped the door; getting no response, he carefully turned the knob and slipped inside. 

Sam halted. Frodo slept soundly, and, as in Ithilien during the Ring Quest, Sam now saw a clear light shine from within him. Only now Frodo's face was like that of a child at rest in his father's arms, secure in knowing that no terror could be stronger than that loving embrace. The light grew stronger and brighter until its gentle glow spread throughout the room and washed over everything, including Sam. 

Sam lingered in wonder as the light faded from sight but remained bright in his heart. Then, without a sound, Sam padded over to where Frodo slumbered and planted a light, affectionate kiss on his brow. "Rest," he murmured, choking up, and quickly slipped away, drawing the door shut behind him. 

* * *

  
  



	26. Chapter Twentyfive: Illumination

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Twenty-five: Illumination **

Spring was coming. 

Frodo stood on the side of the Hill, looking southward over Hobbiton. There had been rain in the night, and clouds, heavy and gray; but the clouds had broken with the morning, and the sun had emerged, all the more dazzling against the backdrop of darkness. The clouds had not ceased to be, but they had ceased to shadow Frodo's heart. 

_The Shire has been saved, but not for me._

The words echoed in memory, dimly, remnants of a passing shadow, hovering for a wistful moment before dissipating like the ashes of Saruman upon the west wind. Frodo breathed deeply, lifted his face to the morning sun, feeling its warmth and strength work its way into skin, sinew, bone, and marrow. He opened his eyes, slowly, and looked over the greening hills and vale, the budding trees, the flowing Water, the first signs of daily life in Hobbiton below. 

"Yes," he said, a deep, radiant smile welling up from his heart to his face. "Even for me." 

*

"Well, Sam." Frodo sat in the study, sipping a cup of tea while Sam worked at his desk. "I hope you can spare me for a while. I'm going on a journey—but do not worry; I shall be gone but a fortnight, and will come back, safe and sound." 

Sam nodded. Slowly he looked up from his papers, and fixed his gaze upon Frodo. "I wish I could go with you," he said. 

Frodo looked softly into Sam's eyes. "I'll need someone to welcome me back home," he answered, and that brought a smile from Sam. 

*

Whistling, Frodo approached a dear, familiar door. By the time he had come close enough to knock, the door had opened and Molly had emerged, pack on her back. 

"You're certain about this?" Frodo queried, hesitating. "I welcome your company, but I fear people will talk." 

Molly snorted. "I put greater stock in your honor, Frodo, than in the esteem of gossips." 

Frodo smiled and offered her his hand. 

*

They returned briefly to Bag End, riding out from there upon two of Sam's ponies. They avoided the main roads and inns, traveling instead over fields and through little woods, and so avoided the eyes and ears of talebearing Shirefolk. Winter's end was hardly a favorable time to sleep out of doors, but though each day was overcast, Frodo and Molly were spared the heavy rains they might typically have expected at that time of year. 

The air was chilly, the sky and sea gray, the afternoon they arrived at the Havens. Frodo stood upon the gray stone quay, hands clasped behind his back, looking out silently over the Sea. Molly stood at his side, holding her head high in defiance of the sharp, bitter wind. 

"Have you ever seen an Elf, Molly?" 

"No. I haven't." 

"They have a light about them, Molly. Shining, as it were, from within. The very light that shines without fading in the Elvenhome, over the Sea." 

It was like a dream, already fading. There remained only the sigh and murmur of the waves upon the shore, but the sound no longer pulled his heart. 

"Perhaps that's what Sam meant when he wrote of you having an Elvish air," reflected Molly. "He wrote that he saw light shining through you, like a clear glass." 

"Like a clear glass," repeated Frodo. He turned to Molly. "And if the vessel is other than clear glass, does the light within shine any less?" 

Molly looked into his eyes, and slowly smiled. "Why, no," she mused. "I suppose I'd say it shines differently, and if the vessel be thick, it shines hidden to the eye; but it shines, all the same." 

The Water flowed into the Brandywine, and the Brandywine flowed into the Sea, and the Sea brought the rains that watered the fields of the Shire and spilled over into the Water. It was all the same water, wherever he went. 

"Indeed," he said, smiling tenderly as he took her hands in his. "It shines, all the same." He leaned toward her, and she leaned in to close the gap, allowing his lips to rest briefly on hers. 

As they parted, he touched the tips of his fingers to her face, gazing upon her in wonder. Her eyes glowed warmly, like a welcome hearth at the end of a long, bitter exile. 

"It shines in you," Frodo whispered. "It shines in us all..." He glanced over her shoulder to where the gray waves rolled ever without rest. "Whether we see it or not." 

A gentle hand slipped behind his head and drew him back into embrace. "I, too, once came to the Sea for solace," Molly murmured. "Seeking peace. Seeking escape." 

Frodo looked sharply at her. 

"The ruffians," she explained in a controlled voice. "Back in nineteen." 

_Ahhh..._

"Oh, Molly..." He reached again for her hands. 

_...confusion...panic...chaos...shouting..._

_...bodies...towering...terrifying...too strong..._

With great effort Frodo steadied himself against the force of the vision that suddenly overtook him, a vision of fire and anguish and torn in two, all compressed into a single point of despair. 

_The Shire has been saved, but..._

"...but it was nothing, I am sure, compared to the terrible burden you bore, the horrible things you endured..." 

Frodo froze. 

_So I thought, too, once..._

"Oh, no, Molly," gasped Frodo, overcoming his paralysis to take her into his arms as they both broke down weeping. "No, no, no..." 

It was March twenty-fifth, and spring had come. 

* * *

**END OF PART THREE**

* * *

  
  



	27. Chapter Twentysix: Shadows Shall Abate

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** PART FOUR: SUMMER **

** Chapter Twenty-six: Shadows Shall Abate **

Frodo dropped quietly back into the doings of the Shire. He still walked at times in solitude, but no longer did he feel alone. 

Like a relentless ground bass beneath a cacophony of merry melodies ran an unacknowledged, uneasy murmur throughout the Shire: _What if it happens again? When will it happen again? How long will the king's edict be protection to us?_

_It's all of us,_ Merry had said. 

And Frodo, at last, knew why he had been sent back to the Shire. 

New murmurings had begun to arise, starting in Hobbiton and Bywater and spreading throughout the Four Farthings. Mr. Frodo of Bag End, it was said, had the touch to ease a troubled heart. Not that much trouble was to be found in the hearts of Shirefolk, of course, but for such as might be feeling a bit down, he had a gift, it was said, a true gift for finding just the right words to drive away sorrows and stir up bright hope and make a body feel a little less alone. 

_Though I come back to the Shire, it shall not be the same, for I am not the same._

"No." Frodo smiled to himself. "I am not the same. And that is precisely why I am back." 

*

Spring had come. And a more promising spring had not been seen, save the already-famous spring of 1420: By mid-April the countryside was as lush and green as midsummer, and winter was but a memory. The breeze through fragrant grasses whispered, _And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all shall be well,_ and gardens and fields flourished, and all was heavy with expectancy. 

And in the midst of the waiting, on the eve of May, a new tale was told in the common room of the Green Dragon. 

"Eh, lads. Heard the news? 

"News?" 

"Ol' Looney Baggins is getting married." 

"Married!" 

"Well, I'll be." 

"Who to?" 

"Spinster Piper, out Hobbiton way." 

"A fine match. She's as mad as he." 

"Ha! Master and Mistress Crackpot, if you please." 

"Speaking of pots, where's that pitcher of ale, then?" 

Laughter broke out amidst much sloshing of ale being poured into glasses. 

*

If Frodo had heard of the talk at the Green Dragon, he paid it no heed, for he had other things to think about. When he had proposed to Molly, Molly had got right to the point: "Well, we're not getting any younger, neither of us. Let's make it a Midsummer's wedding." 

And so the days of May had become a flurry of invitations and preparations and endless sessions with Hobbiton's tailor. 

"I wish we'd eloped," muttered Frodo, feeling quite like a pincushion as the tailor poked and prodded to fit the pieces of his wedding suit. 

"Nonsense," said Sam, puffing on his pipe. "You'll want a day worthy of remembering." 

"All I really want," rejoined Frodo, "is to be settled with Molly in our own home, in peace and quiet." 

"You're sure about that? You know we've plenty of room here for both our families." 

"Sam—" 

"I know, I know. It just don't seem right, somehow, sending you away out of your own home." 

"It's _not_ my home," began Frodo, exasperated. 

"If you please, Mr. Baggins." 

Frodo glanced down at the tailor. "Oh. I am sorry. I'll be still." 

"You're saying I haven't made you feel at home?" Sam sounded hurt. 

Without moving, Frodo shifted his gaze back toward Sam. "Of course I am saying no such thing, Sam. You have made me feel most welcome—but it _is_ your home, now. And Molly has a home of her own, and it seems more sensible for me to move into her home rather than for both of us to move into yours." 

Sam frowned, shaking his head. "It still don't seem right," he stubbornly persisted. "A little hole like that, for a Hobbit of your station—" 

"My _station!_" Frodo burst out laughing. 

"Mr. _Baggins!_" 

"What station?" exclaimed Frodo. "Husband of the town button maker?" 

"Mr. Baggins," repeated the tailor through gritted teeth. 

Frodo stilled himself again. 

Sam looked at him soberly. "You're still a Baggins of Bag End," he said. 

"I _was,_" Frodo countered. "But honestly, Sam, now I am quite content to relinquish that role to the Gardners of the Hill, and to spend the rest of my days as the husband of the Hobbiton button maker." Softly he smiled. "I am happy, Sam. Isn't that what you wanted, all along?" 

Sam blinked, several times. "Folks will talk, you know." 

Frodo snorted. "It's good to know that some things about the Shire will never change." 

*

It seemed as if all he and Sam did of late was argue. Frodo was sitting at the desk in the study, writing out wedding invitations, when he heard Sam grunt dismissively. 

"Waste of paper," remarked Sam from over Frodo's shoulder. 

"Nonsense," said Frodo. 

"He won't come." 

"He won't, if I don't invite him." 

"He won't, anyway." 

"He might. There was that night at the inn." 

"And you haven't heard from him since." 

"But he's heard from me. He's no longer returning my letters, so he must be reading them, at least." 

"Or throwing them away without bothering to send them back." 

"Well, Sam." Frodo let a few drops of wax fall on the envelope and pressed the Baggins seal into the wax. "All I can do is send it, and hope for the best." 

"I hope your hope turns out to have good reason." 

Frodo held his chin high. "Reasonable or not," he said, dropping the envelope onto a large stack of invitations, "I have hope." 

* * *

  
  



	28. Chapter Twentyseven: To Start Anew

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Twenty-seven: To Start Anew **

On an evening late in June, Frodo and Sam walked the lawn in front of Bag End, reviewing the plans for the wedding. The weather, Frodo thought, had taken an unseasonably cool turn. He wrapped his cloak about himself, trying not to shiver in the twilight. 

Sam paced about the lawn. "So you and Molly come out the front door, and you walk along the line of guests, and so on, and so forth; and I'll be waiting _here_—" He stopped in front of the mallorn tree and looked up into the thick canopy of golden leaves. 

_Aren't you cold?_ thought Frodo, watching Sam stand at ease in his rolled-up shirt sleeves. 

Sam looked back at Frodo and smiled. "And then I'll be wedding you. You and Molly. Here beneath the new Party Tree." 

Frodo smiled back, faintly, but he felt the smile fade as he looked away from Sam to the mallorn. "It hardly seems real," he softly said. "To think not that long ago, or it seems not that long ago..." He shivered, then, unable to hold it back. 

Twilight deepened. 

"Seems you've hardly just got back," mused Sam. "And now you're going away." 

"I'm only moving down the hill," said Frodo, looking back to Sam. "Not even out of Hobbiton." 

"True." Sam nodded. His gaze shifted to the west, where the last hint of light gave way to night. "Still, it hits harder than I expected, you leaving me again." 

Frodo felt his hands clench. "You left me long before I ever left you." 

Sam shook his head, looking sadly at Frodo. "I don't think I ever really had you." His glance fell upon the old, worn cloak in which Frodo had enfolded himself. 

Frodo stared at Sam. The chill had become cold, ice cold, and he wondered how anything would ever grow in such a summer as this. 

"Ah, well." Sam shrugged and met Frodo's eyes again. "There's no going back." 

"No," agreed Frodo, shaken. "No, there's not." 

"Getting on, then." Sam returned to pacing the lawn. "After you two speak your vows, and I declare you wed all proper, as witnessed by the Mayor of the Shire and the assembled guests, we proceed ourselves to the head table, here..." 

*

The morning before Midsummer's Day, Frodo set out alone from Bag End, taking with him a small bundle. He walked down the Hill and along the Water until he reached an area of thick, soft grass beneath a willow that had somehow endured through all the trials of the years. 

Bilbo had called it his favorite thinking spot. 

Lowering himself to the grass, Frodo unrolled the bundle he had been carrying. 

Bilbo's old cloak. 

Holding it in his lap, Frodo caressed the worn wool, thinking. 

Remembering. 

Remembering Bilbo's talk of roads and adventures and things Elvish. Remembering Bilbo's affection and attention toward a lonely young orphan. Remembering the love, the trust, the gradual unfolding, the sudden loss that tore him in two, leaving a wound that would never really heal. Remembering the years of never really letting go. 

Remembering how it had been to find Bilbo again, only to have to leave him again. 

Remembering his choice, his refusal to let Bilbo go. 

Bilbo was gone. 

A thousand knives, a thousand stings, ten thousand Rings ripped through him. The Sea rose up in a great gray wave and engulfed him. 

He would never be free. He would never really heal. 

*

When, in time, all tears had given place to stillness, Frodo lifted himself from the ground. He gently gathered the cloak into his hands, folded it, and lay it to rest upon the grass. Frodo knelt a moment, letting his hand linger upon the faded cloth; then, slowly, yet with decision, he drew his hand away and stood. He gazed a heartbeat longer at the old cloak, then turned to go home. 

*

_ The Road goes ever on and on  
Down from the door where it began... _

He stood at the door, the dear, familiar green door, waiting for the music that would tell him it was time to emerge. 

_ You never know where it will lead you, Frodo, when you take that first step out your front door. _

You never know. 

_ But what is to be my Road? I go to lose a treasure, and not come back, as far as I can see. _

But even the very Wise cannot see all ends. 

_ There is no real going back. _

The wedding music began. 

_ But there is going forward. _

Frodo looked to Molly, smiled, and held out his arm. She entwined her arm about his, and together they opened the door and stepped over the threshold into the sunlight. 

*

_And they all lived happily ever after..._

Frodo stood apart from the crowd, a half-sipped mug of ale in his hand. Already the wedding itself was fading into memory. Where Molly'd gone off to, he didn't know. He did know that she was happy. Last he'd seen, she was laughing and chattering with several relations of his from the Brandybuck side, and if she minded that she had no relations of her own to join the guests, it could not be read in her radiant, rosy face. 

Merry. He was there, of course, a mug of ale in one hand and Estella Bolger on his other arm, the jagged brown scar upon his brow the only hint of shadows past. Merry spoke with Freddy, who fidgeted with a little pastry till Merry finally plucked it away and popped it into Freddy's mouth. Freddy blinked, gulped, then started laughing, clapping Merry on the shoulder. 

There would be talking to do. Yes, there would. 

And Sam, too. Proud and jolly, cutting a fine dash in his best suit of green, the one with genuine gold buttons straining at the front of the waistcoat. Wedded bliss had served Sam, perhaps, a little too well, all his mayoral gadding about notwithstanding. But a knowing eye could see, even here, the mark of shadows, some old, some not so old, that marred the bliss. 

They would talk. All of them. Soon. The Four Travellers—no, the Five Conspirators. 

He looked again to Freddy, who had another pastry in hand, this one nibbled, at least, between fidgets. Yes, they must include Freddy. He may not have been one of the Fellowship, yet in a way he'd shared in its work, doing his part, unnoticed and unlauded by the great of Gondor and Rohan and Rivendell, but nevertheless bearing his share of risk and ruin for the sake of the Quest. He alone of the original Conspirators had lived the War when it had come to their very home, and the Travellers needed to hear him as much as he and the Shire needed to hear them. 

They would talk. And they would live. 

_...happily ever after, to the end of their days._

"You look _far_ too serious, cousin, for a fellow who's just been wed." 

Frodo looked up. "Hullo, Pippin," he said, smiling. "Is this better?" 

"Much." 

"I am glad you came." 

"I am glad to be here." 

They looked at one another for a moment. 

"We'll talk," promised Frodo. 

"Yes," said Pippin, looking soberly into Frodo's eyes. "We shall. But not today." 

Then, suddenly, Frodo's head was drenched and Pippin was laughing. 

Frodo sputtered, wiping the ale out of his eyes well enough to fix as menacing a look as an elder cousin can fix upon a younger, but Pippin, still laughing, was already a safe distance away, running and leaping over obstacles as quickly as his long legs could carry him. 

Frodo scanned the crowd and caught Merry's eye. "Help me!" he shouted, waving toward Pippin. Merry nodded and Freddy, after a moment to take it all in, followed suit. They all took off running, weaving between clusters of bemused and amused guests to chase Pippin all over the lawn. Merry was fastest, but Frodo meant to be right behind him just as soon as he caught up with the young Took. From the looks of it, that wouldn't be much longer. 

"Ha!" Frodo grabbed a newly-filled pitcher and swung it with all his might toward the newly-felled Pippin. 

"Mercy!" cried Pippin, laughing hysterically. "At least get some of it in my mouth!" 

"As you wish, Master Peregrin." Sam sauntered up, mug in hand, and tipped it over Pippin's face so that some of its contents splashed into his open mouth. 

Frodo wasn't quite sure how it all happened after that, but the end of the matter was that they all ended up together, collapsed in laughter, in a great tangled ale-soaked heap upon the lawn. 

"Frodo Baggins!" 

He had to disentangle his arm in order to peel away the sodden curls that clung to his brow and blocked his vision. There stood Molly, hands on her hips, looking more than a little put out. 

"Well, Frodo Baggins," she sternly chided. "It seems I will just have to get you into a bath and give you a good scrubbing from top to toe." 

Frodo exchanged a stunned glance with his friends, then looked back at Molly. Did she have any idea just how that had— 

Oh, yes, she did. 

Frodo felt his face grow very hot, indeed. 

He was surrounded yet again with laughter. And Pippin, shouting over the laughter, proclaimed, "And he lived _most_ happily ever after, to the end of his days!" 

And Frodo knew that he would. 

* * *

  
  



	29. Chapter Twentyeight: The Road Ahead

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Chapter Twenty-eight: The Road Ahead **

It was a beautiful night. 

The party had ended, the guests gone home, the lights gone out on the Hill and in Hobbiton below. Frodo walked with Molly, side by side, down the road that had carried him to so many unexpected destinations. The silver stars glimmered in the distance on the Water, the air was mild and scented with wildflowers and grass, and all was right with the world. 

Of course he knew better. There would always be October, and March—but let October take care of itself, and March. Tonight was Midsummer, and tonight he felt very much glad to be alive and in the world, walking home with Molly. 

Molly. 

Baggins. 

His wife. 

Frodo glanced sidelong at her. "You don't really mean to put me in that bath, do you?" 

"Mmm, no," she pensively replied. "It'd be too much work to draw up a bath at this late hour. I'll just have to take you for a dip in the stream, instead." 

Even in the night he could see the gleam in her eye. 

_And the night too shall be blessed and without fear._

He was glad of the night for hiding what must surely be a furious crimson flood upon his face. 

And thinking of that stream, and that swim, he wondered, suddenly, for the first time: Would he...? Would they...? Would there be...? 

Was it too much to hope? 

A glimmer of blue-white light caught his eye, and Frodo looked up. 

_Elen estellë; elen Eärendil._

Star of hope; star of Eärendil. 

And he saw, clearly, as clearly as he had once seen for Sam, that there would be children: not nearly as many as Sam and Rose's ever-growing brood, but enough for Frodo, and enough for Molly; enough to heal their hearts. 

Softly, in the starlight, Frodo began to sing: 

_The Road goes ever on and on  
Down from the door where it began.  
Though not the same, it carries on,  
And I must follow while I can.  
Pursuing it with steadfast feet  
Through many turns along the way,  
Knowing in the darkest street  
Shall come at last the break of day.  
  
The Road goes ever on and on,  
Ever-changing, ever-true.  
The Road behind me now is gone;  
The Road ahead I must pursue.  
_

Molly slipped her left hand into Frodo's right, her fingers interlacing with his so that no gap remained. 

Frodo smiled and let out a quiet, contented sigh. It was a fine night to begin a new journey. 

* * *

**END OF PART FOUR**

* * *

  
  



	30. Epilogue: Pippin

**The Road Ahead  
  
by Sally Gardens**

** Epilogue: Pippin **

We are very much alike, Frodo and I, when you scratch beneath the surface. 

On the surface, we couldn't be more unlike. Frodo is bookish, thoughtful, fond of quiet gatherings with a few chosen friends over a pitcher or two of ale. I, as everyone in the Four Farthings knows, am a Fool of a Took; not the only Fool of a Took, mind you, but a sterling example of one cast in that mold. I am the first to admit that I am outgoing, outspoken, still more impulsive than I ought to be, and as fond of large parties and the attention of a crowd as Frodo is averse to them. 

He sits with me in my study, the sunlight making a halo of his unruly hair—which still has an awful lot of brown, considering. I found a few strands of gray upon my own head, not too long ago, and Frodo had laughed and said that he had given them to me, since he had plenty to spare. 

I shall never tire of seeing him with gray hair. 

He smokes his pipe, contented as can be. I envy him; I can hardly sit still, wish I might get up, get out, take a good brisk walk in the country, but I do not want to leave. Not really. I only wish I had Frodo's calm. 

He catches my eye, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Easy, Pippin," he says. "Sit back and have a smoke." 

I don't want to have a smoke. And I want to say it exactly so, like a petulant child. Instead, I answer, "I'm fine, thank you, cousin." 

See how I have grown. 

"Mm-hm." He gives me a knowing look, but settles back in his chair, shifting his attention to the smoke drifting from his pipe and dancing in the sunbeams streaming through the window. 

I will gladly spend the rest of my life the wreck that I am at this moment, if only he will be granted to hold that peace for the rest of his days. 

It is a wonder that he is here at all. Never will I, can I allow myself to forget this. He left me, once, left us all with the anguish of parting and naught but the thin hope of his healing to console us. He left, forever, to seek healing in a place from which return is said to be neither permitted nor possible. 

And yet it was permitted and made possible for him to return. 

Why? Why, if he was meant to be in the Shire, did they direct him to the Sea? Why trouble to break the rules, not once, but _twice_—once in the permitting of passage, once again in the permitting of return? Would it not have been simpler to keep him in the Shire all along? 

But I know the answer to that. 

Had Frodo stayed, he most certainly would not be here today. 

It has nothing to do with the healing virtues of the Blessed Realm, such as they may be. He came back much as he had been when he departed: healed in body, save for the aches that memory awakens at times in ancient scars, but haunted in mind. Haunted not only by the evil without that had assaulted him without mercy while he bore the Ring, but especially by the frailty he had uncovered within, the shadow that came not from the Ring but from within himself. 

What the Wise gave him, in granting him passage to the Blessed Realm, was no more and no less than he needed to get on with the life that had been saved: time. Time and a place in which to be kept safe until at last he was ready to find his own healing and make peace with his wounds. And, when the time was right, he was sent back home. 

We are very much alike, Frodo and I. 

I tore into him mercilessly at our first meeting upon his return, lashing at him with an anger I had not known I owned. That anger saved me, slapped me awake, pulled me up from the unfeeling pit into which I had slid. It was months after that before I brought myself to make peace with Frodo, but I mark that night as the night of my return to the living. 

Had Frodo not returned, I most certainly would not be here today. 

I hear a squall, high-pitched, almost squeaking. I have never heard anything more absurd, nor more beautiful. The sunlight warms Frodo's eyes as he turns toward me, his face glowing with that smile worn gentle by the years. 

If we had not lived— 

"Pippin!" calls Rose, and I jump in my seat. "Come say hullo to your new son!" 

Like a flash, I am out of my chair and down the hall and standing in the doorway of the bedroom. Diamond is lying there, exhausted amidst a tangle of sheets, and propped up on enough pillows to have kept a whole flock of geese feathered. By the radiance of her eyes as she meets mine, I gather that I will not be held to her mid-labor oaths—shouted loudly enough to be heard all the way to Long Cleeve and back—of never letting me near her again. 

And in her arms... 

Oh. 

"Hullo, son," I say, softly, and my face is surely about to be torn in two by the wide grin I cannot hold back. I feel Frodo's hand firmly upon my back, holding me up, and suddenly I am overwhelmed with giddy wonderful tears. This, this...if this is anything, anything at all what he felt like when his own daughter was born three months ago... 

Oh, I am very glad that there is mercy in the world. 

* * *

**THE END**

* * *

  
  



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